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THE    LIFTED   VEIL 


OK  CALIF.  1IHUSE,  I£S  1HGELBS 


BOOKS  BY  THE 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  INNER  SHRINE" 

[BASIL   KING] 

THE  LIFTED   VEIL.     Illustrated. 

THE  SIDE  OF  THE  ANGELS.     Illustrated. 

THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT.    Illustrated. 

THE  WAY  HOME.     Illustrated. 

THE  WILD  OLIVE.     Illustrated. 

THE  INNER  SHRINE.     Illustrated. 

THE  STREET  CALLED  STRAIGHT.     Illustrated. 

LET  NOT  MAN  PUT  ASUNDER.    Post  8vo. 

IN  THE  GARDEN  OF  CHARITY.     Post  8vo. 

THE  STEPS  OF  HONOR.    Post  8vo. 

THE  GIANT'S  STRENGTH.    Post  8vo. 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK 

ESTABLISHED  1817 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL 


BY 

BASIL    KING 

AUTHOR   OF 

"The  Inner  Shrine  " 


ILLUSTRATED   BY 
JAMES    MONTGOMERY    FLAGG 


HARPER  fcf  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW   YORK    AND    LONDON 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL 


Copyright.  1916.  1917,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  March.  1917 


C-B 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Frontispiece 

As  PALLISER  PLAYED,  THE  TONES  WOVE  THEMSELVES 
IN  WITH  BAINBRIDGE'S  HOPES  AND  WONDERINGS 

AND  DESIRES Facing  p.     56 

As  BAINBRIDGE  TURNED  AGAIN  HE  SAW  MALCOLM 
GRANT  RISE  FROM  His  CHAIR  WITH  A  LOOK  WHICH 
COULD  ONLY  BE  DESCRIBED  AS  THUNDEROUS  .  .  "  194 

SHE  WAS  CRYING  BITTERLY,  ALMOST  HYSTERICALLY, 

AND  WITH  A  HINT  OF  LAUGHTER  IN  HER  TEARS  274 


2130589 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 


CHAPTER  I 

AT  the  time  it  began  Bainbridge  was  still  a  stranger 
in  New  York.  He  was  so  much  a  stranger  as  to  be 
often  lonely,  sometimes  bewildered,  and  homesick  by 
fits  and  starts.  When  he  was  homesick  it  was  not  so 
much  for  any  particular  domestic  group  as  it  was  for  the 
well-ordered,  stratified  life  he  had  known  in  Boston. 
New  York  perplexed  him.  If  it  had  what  he  called  an 
organized  society  its  composition  transcended  his  range. 
He  could  find  neither  beginning  nor  end  to  it,  and  no 
cohesion  in  its  parts.  Among  the  people  whom  he  met 
he  could  see  little  more  than  a  confusion  of  separate 
entities,  each  "on  his  own."  They  seemed  to  him  to 
come  from  nowhere  and  to  be  on  the  way  to  nowhere. 
They  gave  no  account  of  themselves  and  asked  nothing  of 
the  kind  from  others.  He  appraised  them  as  the  sort  of 
people  among  whom  strange  things  happened  and  for 
whom  there  were  no  rules.  They  might  be  daring  or 
eccentric  or  inconsequent  or  worse — very  much  worse — 
and  no  one  would  be  surprised. 

He  himself  was,  therefore,  not  surprised  when,  in  the 
early  twilight  of  a  November  afternoon,  a  heavily  veiled 
woman  came  to  his  house,  asking  to  see  him,  but  declining 

I 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

to  give  her  name.  Though  no  such  incident  had  oc- 
curred to  him  as  yet,  he  was  mentally  prepared  for  it,  just 
as  he  was  mentally  prepared  for  any  extravagance  of 
thought  or  caprice  of  conduct.  When  Mrs.  Wedlock, 
his  housekeeper,  a  stout,  motherly  person  with  a  fresh 
complexion,  a  perceptible  mustache,  and  an  English  hus- 
band, appeared  at  the  study  door  to  say,  "There's  a  lady 
in  the  hall,  sorr,  and  she  won't  tell  her  na-ame,"  he  re- 
plied, as  a  matter  of  course,  "Show  her  in.*' 

He  was  living  at  the  time  in  one  of  the  narrow-fronted, 
high-stooped,  brownstone  houses  in  West  Forty-eighth 
Street  which  had  not  yet  been  modernized  or  made  over 
to  business.  As  a  man  of  means  he  had  taken  the  whole 
house,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wedlock  giving  him  all  the  service 
he  required.  In  the  drawing-room  which  looked  on  the 
street  he  installed  the  white-and-gold  tapestried  French 
furniture  that  had  been  his  mother's,  and  closed  the  door 
upon  it.  Of  the  large  back  room  with  the  southern  ex- 
posure— a  library  or  secondary  drawing-room  it  must  have 
been  when  a  family  occupied  the  house — he  made  a  con- 
venient study,  from  which  a  door  led  into  the  dining-room, 
forming  a  kind  of  ell.  In  these  two  rooms,  with  a  bed- 
room overhead,  he  lived  in  a  comfortless  bachelor  comfort, 
which  had  at  least  the  advantage  of  space. 

It  was  one  of  his  homesick  days,  one  of  the  days  when  he 
felt  himself  dwarfed  and  stunned  by  the  city's  overpower- 
ing soullessness.  It  was  not  that  he  was  unaccustomed 
to  great  capitals.  He  knew  London  and  Paris  and  Berlin 
and  Petrograd,  to  say  nothing  of  Munich,  Vienna,  and 
Rome.  But  in  each  of  these  centers  he  had  found  some 
phase  of  the  human,  the  amenable,  the  urbane.  They 
were  for  man  rather  than  man  for  them.  They  could  be 
subdued  and  utilized  and  made  to  serve  a  purpose.  One 

2 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

could  be  as  much  greater  than  any  of  them  as  the  ship, 
with  its  adjusted  machinery,  is  greater  than  the  formless, 
weltering  sea. 

Here,  on  the  other  hand,  the  city  was  the  thing — 
gigantic,  tumultuous,  terrifying,  monstrous.  It  had  as- 
pects like  those  of  a  vast  mechanism  seen  in  a  nightmare, 
pounding  and  stamping  and  pushing  and  shrieking  and 
suffering,  without  pity  as  without  rest.  Of  man  it  made 
nothing.  He  was  mere  grist  for  its  mill,  and  was  ground 
up  in  it.  With  no  soul  of  its  own,  it  mocked  at  the  soul 
in  him,  and  laughed  down  a  belief  in  it.  Bainbridge  was 
coming  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  harder  to  have 
faith  in  a  spiritual  life  in  New  York  than  in  any  other 
spot  in  the  world.  He  was  wondering  miserably  whether 
he  should  stand  by  the  work  he  had  undertaken  or  run 
away  from  it  when  Mrs.  Wedlock  came  to  his  door  to 
announce  the  visitor. 

Being  seated  at  the  flat-topped  desk  which  held  the 
center  of  the  room,  with  his  back  to  the  fading  light,  he 
rose  as  the  tall  figure,  veiled  and  shrouded  like  a  Moham- 
medan woman,  appeared  on  the  dim  threshold.  He  had 
been  expecting  a  book  agent  or  a  solicitor  of  subscriptions, 
but  he  could  see  at  a  glance  that  this  was  neither  the 
one  nor  the  other.  In  her  carriage  there  was  something 
that  betokened  refinement,  and  probably  position  in  the 
world.  More  than  this  it  was  impossible  to  guess,  because 
of  the  thick  black  veil  and  long  black  cloak. 

"You  don't  know  me,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  so  low  that 
he  could  barely  distinguished  the  words,  "but  that 
doesn't  matter.  I  should  like  to  talk  to  you,  if  you'll 
let  me  and  have  the  time.  Have  you?" 

"  I've  plenty  of  time.    Please  come  in." 

As  he  went  forward  to  place  a  seat  for  her  she  slipped 

3 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

into  an  upright  chair  that  happened  to  be  standing  near 
the  door. 

He  himself  sat  down  again  at  his  desk,  waiting  for 
her  to  state  her  errand. 

"I  heard  your  sermon  last  Sunday  afternoon,"  she 
began,  in  the  same  low  voice,  in  which  he  recognized  the 
educated  tone,  "and  it  seemed  to  apply  to  me." 

"Indeed?" 

.  "That  is,"  she  corrected,  "it  applied  to  me  in  the  sense 
that  it  has  made  me  think  of  things,  and  I've  thought  that 
perhaps  you  could  help  me.  I  dare  say  you  can't,"  she 
went  on,  rather  hurriedly,  "and  that  it  may  be  foolish 
on  my  part  to  have  come." 

"Nothing  is  ever  foolish  that  we  do  from  a  good  mo- 
tive," he  encouraged.  "In  all  action  the  motive  is  the 
main  thing — even  when  we  make  mistakes." 

"Unless  I  tell  you  the  truth,"  she  pursued,  "you  can't 
help  me." 

"Probably  not;  but  I  shall  have  to  leave  that  with  you. 
Tell  me  whatever  you  think  it  right  to  tell — and  don't 
be  afraid." 

"  I  am  afraid — but  neither  does  that  matter  very  much. 
I'm  a  woman  who  would  be  called" — she  hesitated,  but 
urged  herself  onward — "who  would  be  called — a  sinner. 
You  know  what  that  means,  don't  you?" 

"I  know  what  you  mean — or  I  think  I  do.  If  I'm 
wrong  you  must  correct  me." 

She  seemed  to  reflect.  "Why  do  you  speak  of  what  I 
mean?"  she  asked  at  last.  "Shouldn't  you  mean  it, 
too?" 

Bainbridge  was  glad  that  he  couldn't  see  her  face,  since 
he  felt  the  more  free  to  speak  frankly.  "If  there's  a 
difference  between  us  it  probably  comes  from  the  fact 

4 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

that  we've  different  conceptions  of  sin.  You  call  yourself 
a  sinner  because  you've  done  one  kind  of  wrong  thing, 
whereas  to  me  you  would  have  been  a  sinner  whether  you 
had  done  it  or  not." 

"Yes,  but  only  in  the  way  in  which  every  one  else  is  a 
sinner — " 

"The  way  in  which  every  one  else  is  a  sinner  is  the  way 
that  counts.  It  isn't  what  we  do  that's  so  very  important ; 
it's  our  whole  attitude  of  mind." 

"That's  something  like  what  you  said  on  Sunday;  but 
I  don't  understand  it.  If  what  I  do  isn't  important — " 

"It  is  important — but  less  for  itself  than  because  it 
shows  what  lies  behind  it.  It  isn't  the  disease;  it's  the 
symptom." 

"And  you  think  that  if  there  hadn't  been  one  kind  of 
symptom  there  would  have  been  another." 

"There  are  symptoms  wherever  there's  disease.  It's 
no  use  to  consider  the  effect  while  we  leave  the  cause 
undisturbed." 

"  In  my  case  the  cause  was  that  I  fell  in  love  with  a  man 
I  had  no  right  to  fall  in  love  with,  just  as  he  had  no  right 
to  fall  in  love  with  me.  But,  then,  neither  of  us  could 
help  it." 

Bainbridge  smiled  faintly.  "You'll  have  to  forgive 
me  if  I  say  that  that,  too,  was  an  effect.  The  cause  lay 
farther  back." 

From  the  way  in  which  the  veiled  head  was  bent  he 
gathered  that  she  was  trying  to  think  this  out.  When 
she  looked  up  it  was  to  say :  ' '  Then  I  don't  know  what  the 
cause  is.  I  was  all  right  before  that." 

"Were  you?    What  do  you  mean  by  all  right?" 

"  I  hadn't  done — I  hadn't  done  anything  wrong.  I  was 
what  is  called  a  good  woman." 

5 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

"And  yet  the  difference  between  a  good  woman  and 
what  is  called  a  good  woman  is  considerable.  We  must 
get  away  from  what  things  are  called  and  reach  realities." 

Again  she  took  a  long  minute  for  reflection,  asking  at 
last,  "Do  you  mean  that  I  wasn't  a  good  woman?" 

He  leaned  on  the  desk,  toying  with  a  paper-knife. 
"That's  hardly  for  me  to  say;  but  if  you  want  to  know 
my  opinion — " 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"Then,"  he  said,  gently,  "I  shouldn't  think  it  probable." 

"Oh,  but  I  was." 

He  knew  he  had  shocked  her  from  the  uneasiness  with 
which  she  stirred  in  her  seat. 

She  went  on,  breathlessly:  "I  was  a  widow — quite 
young.  I  was  very  careful." 

He  rested  his  forehead  on  one  hand,  while  the  other  con- 
tinued to  finger  the  paper-knife.  "You  say  that  you  fell 
in  love  with  a  man  you  had  no  right  to  fall  in  love  with, 
and  that  you  couldn't  help  it.  But  a  good  woman  would 
have  helped  it.  The  difference  is  there." 

She  threw  up  her  head  in  indignation.  "She  would 
have  helped  it?  How?" 

"By  her  mental  attitude.  She  would  have  been  where 
the  sort  of  thing  that  happened  to  you  couldn't  have 
reached  her." 

"Ah,  that's  easy  to  say!" 

"It's  easy  to  say  because  it's  true.  A  good  woman  is 
shielded  against  this  form  of  attack  as  she  is  against  the 
unhappiness  that  springs  from  it." 

Though  she  kept  her  voice  low,  there  was  a  tragic 
emphasis  in  the  declaration:  "That's  not  true.  I've 
known  good  women  who  were  unhappy  just  in  the  way 
I've  been." 

6 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"That  is,  you  thought  they  were  good;  but  there  was  a 
flaw  in  the  goodness  somewhere.  Don't  you  see,  it  all 
lies  in  what  we  mean  by  right — and  by  wrong?" 

"Well,  what  do  we  mean?" 

"What  do  you  mean  yourself? — let  us  say  by  wrong?" 

"By  wrong  I  suppose  I  mean  a  transgression  of  the 
moral  law." 

"Yes;  and  what  makes  one  transgress  it?" 

She  considered  this  at  length.  "I  suppose  some  phase 
of  desire." 

"That's  a  very  good  answer.  So  that  back  of  the 
actual  transgression  is  thought.  If  wrong  wasn't  first 
in  the  mind  it  wouldn't  be  in  the  body — or  on  the  lips — 
or  in  the  hand — or  anywhere.  Good  and  evil  express 
themselves  in  act;  but  in  fact  they  are  mental  sympathies." 

"So  that  what  you  mean  by  a  good  woman — ?" 

"  Is  one  whose  thoughts  are  kept  as  strictly  as  possible 
with  good." 

"  Oh,  but  what  kind  of  a  woman  would  that  be?" 

Raising  his  head,  he  looked  at  her  through  the  gathering 
darkness.  "The  fact  that  you  can  ask  that — " 

"Shows  that  when  I  thought  I  was  a  good  woman  I 
was  really  a  bad  one.  Is  that  what  you  were  going  to 
say?" 

"  No ;  shows  rather  that  you've  never  understood  what  a 
good  woman  really  is.  The  whole  thing  is  mental.  It's 
a  matter  of  understanding.  If  your  mind  had  been  right 
your  heart  wouldn't  have  gone  wrong.  It  couldn't  have 
happened." 

"If  you  were  a  woman — "  she  began  to  protest. 

"It  doesn't  matter  whether  I'm  a  woman  or  a  man. 
In  good  there  is  neither  Jew  nor  Greek,  neither  male  nor 
female.  It's  not  a  question  either  of  sex  or  of  psychology." 

7 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"  To  me  it  seems  both." 

" Possibly;  and  yet  so  long  as  it  does  you'll  be  confused 
about  yourself  and  perhaps  go  further  astray." 

He  fancied  she  resented  his  language,  since  she  again 
stirred  uneasily  and  spoke  in  a  tone  slightly  of  offense.  "  I 
hadn't  thought  of  myself  precisely  as  having  gone  astray— 

"One  doesn't  unless  one  has  the  true  norm  of  con- 
duct before  one.  And  yet  whatever  isn't  normal  is  ab- 
normal, just  as  whatever  isn't  straight  is  crooked." 

"Oh,  would  you  call  it  abnormal — doing  as  I  did?" 

"Abnormal  in  the  sense  that  the  only  normal  is  the 
right." 

"To  me  it  seemed  right." 

"Right  to  do  wrong?  You  admitted  that  it  was 
wrong,  didn't  you?" 

"Not  all  wrong." 

"If  it  was  wrong  in  any  way — " 

"We — we  cared  for  each  other.  That  in  itself  was  a 
reason — " 

"For  betraying  some  one  else?" 

Once  more  the  shrouded  figure  moved.  "You're  very 
severe." 

"  Is  there  any  use  in  being  gentle?    If  there  is,  tell  me." 

"You'd  know  that  better  if  you  knew  what  I've  been 
through.  It's  what  I  hoped  you'd  let  me  speak  to  you 
about." 

"Then  I  beg  your  pardon.    May  I  ask  you  to  go  on?" 

It  was  only  after  a  silence  that  seemed  long  that  she 
said,  abruptly,  "I  never  was  happy — not  till  then." 

As  she  was  again  silent:  "Then?    You  mean  when — 

"When — when  it  all  came  about.  It  took  me — it  took 
us — by  surprise.  We  didn't  mean  anything — we  didn't 
expect  anything.  It — it  flared  up." 

8 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

"  Does  anything  ever  flare  up  unless  there's  something 
of  which  to  make  a  fire?" 

"You  must  let  me  tell  you,"  she  said,  irrelevantly. 
"I  was  born  right  here  in  New  York,  and  I'm  now  exactly 
twenty-eight  years  old." 

"You're  young,  then.  I  didn't  know  that,  because  I 
can't  see  you." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  see  me.  Not  that  you'd  know  me. 
I've  never  met  you  before,  except  for  seeing  you  last 
Sunday  in  church.  I  don't  generally  go  to  church.  I 
don't  know  what  made  me  do  it  then,  apart  from  having 
heard  some  friends  of  mine  speak  of  your  preaching;  and 
it  seemed  to  me  that  I  must  get  out  of  myself  or  go  mad." 

"Then  you're  not  happy." 

"Not  now;  but  I  was — f or  a  while.  But  you  don't  let 
me  tell  you."  She  began  her  explanations  again.  "We 
lived  a  good  deal  abroad,  my  mother  and  I.  My  father 
died  when  I  was  young.  I  had  no  brothers  or  sisters. 
It  was  in  Europe  we  met  a  man  who  wanted  to  marry  me. 
He  was  older  than  I — a  good  deal.  I  would  rather  not 
have  married  him  because — " 

As  she  hesitated  he  helped  her  out,  "Because  you 
didn't  care  for  him?" 

"Partly  that,  and  partly  that  I  had  already  seen  a  man 
who — who  impressed  me  more — only  that  I  wasn't  exactly 
in  love  with  him,  either.  He  asked  me,  and  I  refused 
him,  but  I  thought  about  him.  And  then  this  second  man 
came — a  rich  man — a  New-Yorker,  too — and  my  mother 
seemed  to  want  it — and  so — " 

"And  so  you  accepted  him?" 

"He  didn't  live  very  long  after  we  were  married — only 
four  years.  That  made  me  twenty-four  when  he  died. 
He  left  me  a  good  deal  of  money." 

2  9 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

"And  the  other  man  came  back?    Was  that  it?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "No;  he's  in — in  another  coun- 
try. I've  never  seen  him  since.  He  was  striking — and 
perhaps  if  he'd —  But  he  never  came  back.  I  read  about 
him  sometimes — in  the  papers.  You'd  probably  know 
his  name.  He's  been  married  since  then — and  is  now 
a  widower.  But  he  has  nothing  to  do  with  what  I'm 
going  to  tell  you — except  that  at  one  time  if  he'd  only — 
only  insisted  a  little  more.  .  .  .  But  all  that's  nothing. 
What  really  happened  was  with  some  one  else." 

To  relieve  her  agitation  he  asked,  in  a  commonplace 
voice,  "Shall  I  turn  on  the  light?" 

She  replied,  quickly:  "No;  please!  There's  light 
enough,  and  I  can  tell  you  better  as  we  are."  A  few 
seconds  passed  before  she  could  resume  her  tale.  "When 
my  husband  died  I  brought  him  back  from  Europe,  where 
we  had  been  living,  to  be  buried  in  his  own  country.  I 
forgot  to  say  that  my  mother  had  died  two  years  before. 
I  realized  then  that  it  was  the  reason  why  she  wanted 
me  to  marry  my  husband.  She  knew  she  couldn't  be 
with  me  much  longer,  and  so  she  wanted  me  to  be  taken 
care  of.  But  that  left  me  without  friends — I  mean  any 
one  very  near  to  me." 

"And  you  were  only  twenty-four,"  he  said,  sympa- 
thetically. 

"There  was  just  one  person,"  she  continued,  "a  woman, 
a  distant  cousin,  two  or  three  years  older  than  myself. 
She'd  been  married  about  the  same  time  as  I  had  been. 
I'd  known  her  all  my  life,  without  ever  knowing  her 
very  well.  She  asked  me  to  stay  with  her  when  I  came 
back  for  the  funeral — and  then  I  met — I  met  her — her 
husband." 

/Tsee." 

10 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

"Nothing  happened  at  first — not  for  a  long  while. 
They  persuaded  me  to  stay  in  this  country,  and  I  took 
a  house.  We  became  very  intimate.  We're  very  intimate 
still." 

"In  spite  of—" 

"Yes;  we  have  to  be.  I  can't  let  her  suspect  that — 
But  what  happened  was  this."  Again  some  seconds  went 
by  before  she  could  continue.  "But  I  needn't  tell  you 
that.  You  must  see.  I  only  want  to  say  that  I  wasn't 
expecting  anything.  I  was  hardly  thinking  of  any- 
thing—" 

"You  say  hardly.  That  means  that  you  were  think- 
ing-" 

"We  couldn't  be  meeting  nearly  every  day  without — " 

"Oh  yes,  you  could.  The  mental  door  had  been  left 
open,  and  so — " 

"One's  human,"  she  protested,  with  a  hint  of  tears. 

"No;  one's  divine.  That's  what  you  don't  seem  to 
understand.  By  telling  yourself  that  you're  human  you 
make  yourself  weak." 

"But  I  am  weak." 

"No,  you're  strong.  One  is  weak  or  strong  according 
as  one  believes  oneself.  As  a  man  thinketh —  You 
know  the  rest  of  the  proverb." 

"It  took  me  wholly  by  surprise,"  she  pursued,  "as  it 
took  him.  I  know  he  had  never  anticipated  anything  of 
the  kind,  or  if  he  had  he  thought  he'd  be  able  to  with- 
stand it.  It  was  one  afternoon  in  the  winter — late.  His 
wife  had  sent  him  to  my  house  with  a  message,  and  we'd 
been  having  tea  together.  There  was  a  fire  burning,  and 
we'd  been  sitting  in  the  half-light.  It  wasn't  till  he  got 
up  to  go  away  that — that  something  came  over  us  both. 
...  It  was  sudden  and  electric — I'd  never  known  any- 

XI 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

thing  of  the  sort  before.  I'd  never  been  in  love  with  any 
one — not  really.  It  didn't  matter  to  me  then  that  the 
man  was  some  one  I  had  no  right  to  love — that  he  was 
another  woman's  husband.  Nothing  would  have  mattered 
to  me,  not  if  it  was  to  be  death  the  next  moment.  He 
kissed  me;  we  kissed  each  other.  It  was — it  was  like  a 
marriage — a  marriage  far  more  real  than  my  real  mar- 
riage. ...  It  was  two  years  ago." 

"And  since  then—?" 

"That's  what  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about.  You  see, 
it  was  this  way.  For  the  first  year  we  lived  in  a  kind  of 
heaven.  The  secrecy  and  the  deceit  didn't  matter  to 
either  of  us.  We  often  talked  about  that  side  of  it,  and 
said  how  strange  it  was  that  there  should  be  people  in  the 
world  who'd  condemn  us.  It  didn't  seem  wrong  to  us; 
it  seemed  right — and  natural." 

"That  kind  of  lie  is  often  told  by  sin,  but  it  can't  keep 
it  up." 

She  drew  a  sharp,  audible  breath,  but  controlled  herself 
sufficiently  to  say:  "It  didn't  keep  it  up  with  us — what- 
ever it  was.  I  think  it  was  he  who  felt  it  first." 

"The  man  often  does." 

"I  remember  that  it  was  toward  the  end  of  the  first 
year  that  I  began  to  see — or  rather  to  feel — that  he  hadn't 
his  own  inner  support,  as  at  first.  When  he  came  to  see 
me  he  was  often  grave  and  depressed.  He  began  to  be 
worried,  too,  for  fear  his  wife  should  find  out." 

"Didn't  he  want  her  to  find  out — and  set  him  free?" 

"No;  neither  of  us  wanted  that.  I  don't  know  why, 
exactly,  but  we  preferred  the  situation  as  it  was.  If  I 
couldn't  hold  him  in  that  way  I  would  rather  have  let 
him  go." 

''And  couldn't  you  hold  him?" 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"The  question  never  rose.  Before  the  year  was  past 
I  began  to  have  the  same  misgivings  as  he.  It  wasn't 
that  I  regretted  anything.  I'm  not  sure  that  I  regret 
anything  now.  But — but  I  began  again  to  see  things  as 
other  people  see  them,  and — and  to  be  worried.  From 
being  worried  I  became  unhappy,  and  from  being  un- 
happy— " 

"You've  become  repentant.     Is  that  it?" 

"I  don't  know  what  repentance  is.  It's  what  I  want 
you  to  tell  me." 

"Repentance  is  being  sufficiently  sorry  for  what  one 
has  done  to  give  it  up." 

"If  that's  all  it  is,  then — then  I  suppose  I'm  repentant. 
I've — we've — given  it  up." 

"Since  when?" 

"More  than  six  months  ago.  We  meet — we  have  to — 
but—" 

"Does  that  mean  that  you  don't  care  about  each  other 
any  more?" 

Again  he  heard  the  hard-drawn  breath.  "  I  don't  know 
what  he  feels  for  me.  What  I  feel  for  him  is  chiefly — is 
chiefly  pity.  He's  not  happy;  and  yet  he  has  to  act  as  if 
he  was." 

"That  is,  he  has  to  keep  up  the  comedy  of  loving  his 
wife  when  he  doesn't." 

"And  never  did.  If  you  knew  them  you'd  see  how  that 
could  happen,  and  neither  of  them  be  to  blame — or  not 
much." 

"Possibly;  and  yet  we're  less  concerned  with  them  than 
with  you.  Now  that  you've  told  me  so  much,  may  I  ask 
you  still  another  question?  What  is  it  exactly  that  you 
want  me  to  explain?" 

She  considered  this.  The  room  was  now  so  dim  that 

13 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

he  could  barely  distinguish  her  figure  as  something  dark 
against  the  faint  color  of  the  bindings  in  a  bookcase 
behind  her.  "I  want  to  know  this,"  she  said  at  last. 
"Admitting  that  I'm  repentant,  in  the  sense  you've  given 
to  the  word,  what  will  repentance  do  for  me?" 

''What  do  you  want  it  to  do  for  you?" 

Again  there  was  a  pause  for  consideration.  "I  want  it 
to  put  me  back  where  I  was  before." 

"Back  where  you  were  before — in  whose  estimation?" 

"In  my  own.     Can  it  do  that?" 

"It  can't,  of  course,  blot  out  the  facts." 

"Then  what  can  it  do?" 

"It  can  give  them  another  significance." 

"What  kind  of  significance?" 

"It  can  make  them  the  occasion  of  your  turning  to 
Good— God." 

"But  I'm  not  sure  that  I  am." 

"Then  it  can't  do  any  more  for  you  than  it  has  done 
already.  It  can  make  you  give  up  sin — and  be  unhappy." 

He  allowed  her  time  to  turn  this  over  in  her  mind. 
"What  is  turning  to  God?"  she  asked  at  last.  "Is  it 
going  to  church?" 

"No;  going  to  church  has  very  little  to  do  with  it. 
Many  people  go  to  church  who've  never  turned  to  God; 
and  some  people  have  turned  to  God  who  never  go  to 
church.  I  can't  put  anything  so  vast  into  a  few  words,  any 
more  than  I  can  gather  the  sky  into  my  hand,  but  I  can 
give  you  a  clue  to  what  it  means.  Turning  to  God  is 
perhaps  first  of  all  the  training  of  one's  mind  to  live  with 
Good  rather  than  with  Evil.  When  you  begin  to  do 
that—" 

He  could  feel  a  certain  eagerness  in  the  tone  with  which 
she  interrupted  him.  "Yes?  What?" 

14 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

"You  find  that  life  resolves  itself  of  its  own  accord  into 
the  normal — the  natural — the  peaceful.  You  put  on 
what  St.  Paul  calls  the  new  man.  In  proportion  as  you 
do  that  the  old  man,  the  sinning  self,  grows  less  insistent, 
till  finally  it  disappears." 

"From  the  memory?" 

"You  may  not  want  it  to  disappear  from  the  memory 
when  you  see  it  as  the  starting-point  of  so  much  blessed- 
ness." 

"Yes,  if  one  does!" 

"That  would,  of  course,  depend  on  yourself.  There  are 
plenty  of  people  who  would  like  the  end,  but  who  won't 
take  the  trouble  to  pursue  the  means.  If  you're  going  to 
do  anything  at  all  you  must  understand  beforehand  that 
it  can  only  be  through  hard  work." 

"Hard  work  in  what  way?" 

"  In  a  good  many  ways.  You'll  have  to  take  yourself  in 
hand  thoroughly." 

"What  should  I  have  to  do  first?" 

"Begin  at  the  beginning.  You  speak  of  yourself  as 
possibly  repentant;  but  you  can't  repent  of  one  sin, 
leaving  the  rest  untouched." 

"There's  only  one  that  has  troubled  me." 

"But  when  you  begin  at  the  beginning  you'll  probably 
find  a  good  many.  There's  something  in  the  New 
Testament  on  the  subject  of  bringing  every  thought  into 
captivity  to  the  obedience  of  Christ.  You'd  have  to 
try  to  do  that — make  it  a  kind  of  goal." 

On  this  she  made  no  direct  comment,  again  sitting  for  a 
time  in  silence.  The  obscurity  deepened  so  fast  that  when 
she  spoke  her  voice  seemed  to  come  to  him  out  of  dark- 
ness. "If  I  did,  should  I  become  good  enough,  let  us 
say,  to — to  marry  again?" 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

He  took  time  over  his  reply.  "There's  also  something 
in  the  New  Testament  which  says:  'If  any  man  be  in 
Christ  he  is  a  new  creature.  Old  things  have  passed  away ; 
all  things  have  become  new.'  Does  that  tell  you  what  you 
want  to  know?" 

' '  Not  exactly ;  I  'm  asking — ' ' 

"You  mustn't  ask  too  much  at  once.  In  the  life  we're 
considering  we  take  but  one  step  at  a  time.  Having  taken 
that  to  the  best  of  our  ability,  we  see  the  next  one." 

"Then  suppose  I  put  it  in  this  way:  If  a  man  were  to 
ask  me  to  marry  him,  should  I  be  free  to  accept  him — 
without  telling  him  what  I  had  done?" 

He  spoke  with  some  fervor.  "If  you're  repenting — 
or  trying  to  repent — in  order  to  be  good  enough  to  marry 
again,  let  me  tell  you  now  that  you  won't  do  it.  You  must 
be  honest  with  yourself.  You  can't  make  a  cat's-paw 
of  God.  The  only  motive  for  repentance  is  to  put  one- 
self into  harmony  with  Good.  In  proportion  as  you  do 
that  you  receive  good.  Questions  are  answered  and  dif- 
ficulties are  smoothed  away." 

She  put  her  inquiry  into  still  another  form.  "And  sup- 
pose that  were  to  happen,  should  I  be  justified  in  letting 
a  good  man  make  me  his  wife?" 

"You'd  know  that  when  the  situation  arose."  He 
asked,  on  a  sudden  impulse,  "The  situation  hasn't  arisen, 
has  it?" 

"  No.  I'm  only  wondering.  I  merely  want  to  get  back 
— and  be  what  I  was  before." 

There  was  a  sudden  tenderness  in  his  voice  as  he  said: 
"When  you  want  to  be  better  than  you  were  before  you'll 
accomplish  something.  I  don't  think  you  will  till  then." 

As  she  rose  he  followed  her  example,  though  he  re- 
mained standing  at  his  desk. 

16 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  simply.  "I'll  go  now.  I 
think  I  understand  what  you  mean.  Perhaps  some  day 
I  may  find  a  way  to  let  you  know  that  I've  profited  by 
what  you've  told  me.  Good-by — and  thank  you  again." 

"Shall  I  show  you  to  the  door?" 

"No;  please  don't.  I  know  the  way.  Good-by;  good- 
by." 

Peering  into  the  darkness,  he  could  barely  see  that  she 
passed  swiftly  and  almost  silently  into  the  hall,  though 
he  remained  standing  and  listening  till  he  heard  the  street 
door  close  behind  her. 


CHAPTER  II 

TO  this  incident  there  was  no  sequel  in  Bainbridge's 
life  for  nearly  a  year  and  a  half. 

What  the  occurrence  did  for  him  first  of  all  was  to 
show  him  that  even  in  New  York  there  were  people 
yearning  and  searching  for  some  sort  of  spiritual  rescue. 
It  gave  him,  therefore,  a  zest  in  his  work  which  was  lacking 
before  and  a  sense  of  being  useful.  When  his  heart  was 
heavy  it  renewed  his  courage  to  think  that  he  might  be 
helping  those  for  whom  there  was  no  one  else  to  point  the 
•/way.  When  his  preaching  tended  to  be  lifeless,  it  added 
'  fire  to  his  words  to  remember  that  the  unknown  woman 
might  be  listening.  Where  there  was  work  to  be  done  he 
easily  found  himself  at  home,  and  so  ceased  to  pine,  except 
at  long-separated  intervals,  for  Boston. 

That  he  should  think  of  his  veiled  visitor  was  natural. 
During  the  weeks  immediately  following  their  conversa- 
tion he  often  fancied  he  saw  her — in  the  street,  in  shops, 
in  hotels,  in  church.  He  associated  with  her  any  face 
that  caught  his  attention,  any  tall,  gliding  form.  Of  her 
voice  he  had  hardly  a  recollection.  Her  speech  had 
been,  perhaps  purposely,  kept  so  low  that  his  ear  retained 
no  more  than  the  audible  utterance  of  words. 

And  yet  as  time  went  on  his  imagination  dwelt  on  her 
less  and  less.  The  impossibility  of  recognition  was  an 
element  in  this  detachment,  while  new  experiences  of 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

interest  thrust  into  the  background  the  memory  of  minutes 
of  which  the  haunting  power  was  chiefly  in  their  mystery. 

He  began  to  make  friends.  Among  the  people  of 
St.  Mary  Magdalen's  he  discovered,  more  or  less  below 
the  surface,  a  degree  of  quiet,  well-organized  social 
cohesion  of  which  even  Massachusetts  would  not  have  been 
ashamed.  In  and  through  and  under  the  city's  turmoil 
he  found  that  family  life  which  neither  the  nation  nor  the 
world  could  do  without,  and  with  which  he  was  glad  to 
connect  himself.  It  was  not  so  obvious  as  it  often  was 
elsewhere,  and  yet  could  be  extracted  from  the  formless 
mass,  like  radium  from  pitchblende.  With  some  slight 
surprise  he  learned  that  there  were  people  in  New  York 
who  cared  for  the  same  things  as  himself,  and  that  in  the 
crowded  spaces  of  Manhattan  neither  civilization  nor 
Christianity  was  quite  submerged  by  the  human  tidal 
wave.  With  that  perception  his  interest  first  in  this 
little  circle  and  then  in  that  began  to  expand.  He 
dined  out  a  good  deal;  he  joined  one  or  two  clubs.  With 
an  individual  or  a  family  here  and  there  he  formed  sym- 
pathetic affiliations  or  ties  of  friendship.  There  were  two 
or  three  houses,  without  marriageable  daughters,  to  which 
he  could  turn  when,  for  emotional  reasons  or  because  of 
fatigue,  he  specially  needed  a  refuge. 

He  had  thus  all  but  forgotten  the  one  striking  incident  of 
his  first  year  in  New  York  when  it  was  recalled  to  him. 
As  it  was  a  Saturday  morning,  he  was  again  in  his  study, 
preparing  his  sermon  for  the  following  day,  when  Mrs. 
Wedlock  entered  the  room  with  a  card.  "The  gintleman 
in  the  droring-room,  sorr.  He's  the  wan  with  the  chin- 
whiskers  that's  been  here  twice  already,  only  you  was 
out." 

Taking  the  card,  Bainbridge  read  the  vaguely  familiar 

19 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

name:  "Sir  Malcolm  Grant."  In  the  lower  left-hand 
corner  there  was  a  further  inscription,  "Montreal,"  with 
a  number  to  indicate  a  house  in  Sherbrooke  Street. 
"  The  name  and  address  drove  all  thought  of  Bain- 
bridge's  sermon  from  his  mind.  "He  must  want  to  be 
married,"  was  the  only  explanation  of  the  visit  he  could 
think  of,  while  he  directed  Mrs.  Wedlock  to  conduct  the 
stranger  from  the  adjoining  room. 

The  new-comer  proved  to  be  a  handsome  man,  very 
correctly  dressed,  perhaps  in  the  early  forties,  and  there- 
fore some  ten  years  senior  to  Bainbridge  himself.  Over 
six  feet  in  height,  with  proportionate  breadth  of  shoulder, 
he  brought  with  him  suggestions  of  the  club,  the  race- 
course, and,  as  Bainbridge  was  to  learn,  the  bank.  With  a 
fair  mustache  which  did  not  conceal  a  good-humored 
mouth,  with  a  fair  imperial  on  a  dimpled  chin,  with  small 
blue  eyes  that  twinkled  and  glinted  when  he  spoke  or 
when  any  one  spoke  to  him,  his  expression  was  less  of 
inexperience  than  of  long-persisting  boyishness.  In  con- 
trast to  Bainbridge,  who  was  of  no  more  than  the  middle 
height,  slender,  clean-shaven,  and  ascetic,  he  was  as  the 
flesh  face  to  face  with  the  soul.  It  was,  however,  the 
flesh  with  no  stamp  of  evil  on  its  comeliness,  and  much 
to  commend  its  good  looks.  Toil  had  left  no  mark  on  it, 
nor  suffering,  nor  reflection,  nor  excess.  Its  sensuousness 
was  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  brand,  clean  and  sympathetic. 
A  critic  bound  to  find  fault  might  have  compared  the  man 
to  a  magnificent  building,  full  of  empty,  swept,  and  gar- 
nished rooms  which  had  never  as  yet  sheltered  anything. 

Between  two  men  so  obviously  of  the  same  traditions 
the  greeting  was  without  awkwardness.  They  did  not 
immediately  sit  down,  for  the  Canadian  handed  to 
Bainbridge  an  envelope  sealed,  but  without  address. 

20 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"I'm  asked,"  he  explained,  "to  beg  you  to  look  at  this." 
The  voice  was  English,  with  that  indefinable  quality 
that  betokens  the  man  of  the  world. 

Bainbridge  broke  the  seal,  and  read,  standing: 

I  am  the  woman  who  came  to  you  eighteen  months  ago.  Do 
you  remember?  If  so,  will  you  be  good  enough  to  tell  the 
bearer  what  I  told  you  then?  I  have  tried  to  do  so,  but  I  find 
I  cannot.  Either  the  right  words  will  not  come  out  or  he 
does  not  understand.  I  have  told  him,  therefore,  to  listen 
to  you — and  go  away  or  come  back,  as  he  judges  best.  As 
you  will  probably  know  his  name  it  will  be  easy  for  you,  if 
you  choose,  to  learn  mine;  but  I  trust  you.  I  said  that  some 
day  I  might  find  a  way  to  let  you  know  that  I  had  profited  by 
your  words,  and  I  think  I  can  do  it  now. 


Bainbridge  read  these  lines  a  second  time  and  a  third. 
It  was  necessary  for  him  to  collect  his  thoughts  and  make 
sure  of  his  connection  with  the  incident  to  which  the 
writing  referred.  Many  women  had  come  to  him,  on 
one  errand  or  another,  within  the  past  year  and  a  half, 
so  that  his  recollection  of  the  veiled  stranger,  while  re- 
maining apart  from  all  others,  had  lost  its  vividness. 
Between  each  reading  he  glanced  at  the  tall  Canadian, 
who  stood  erect  and  soldier-like,  waiting  without  im- 
patience. Minutes  had  passed  before  Bainbridge  could 
take  upon  himself  his  duties  as  a  host  and  say,  "Won't 
you  sit  down?" 

They  seated  themselves  on  either  side  of  the  smoldering 
fire  which  the  chill  in  the  wind  of  the  May  day  rendered 
acceptable.  The  clergyman  sank  absently  into  the  long 
low  arm-chair  he  was  in  the  habit  of  using.  The  visitor, 
whose  gloved  left  hand  rested  on  his  hip,  while  his  un- 
gloved right  held  his  hat  and  stick,  took  the  round-backed 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

office  chair  at  the  other  end  of  the  hearth-nig.  Bain- 
bridge  gave  the  lines  a  fourth  reading,  in  order  to  think 
out  as  rapidly  and  as  clearly  as  possible  what  he  should 
have  to  say. 

"First,"  he  observed,  when  the  length  of  the  silence 
had  made  it  necessary  for  him  to  break  it,  "I  ought  to 
inform  you  that  I  don't  know  the  name  of  the  writer  of 
these  words,  nor  do  I  think  I  ought  to  know  it." 

"So  she  gave  me  to  understand.  From  what  I  gathered 
that  will  not  affect  what  you  have  to  tell  me." 

Bainbridge  felt  that  the  way  had  been  pointed  for  his 
next  move.  "What  have  you  gathered?" 

4 '  Nothing — certainly. ' ' 

4 '  Well,  then — uncertainly  ?" 

There  was  the  slightest  hesitation.     "Still — nothing." 

"Still— nothing?" 

"Still— nothing." 

The  last  word  had  the  ring  of  decision  and  finality. 
After  scanning  the  lines  once  more,  Bainbridge  tore  the 
paper  into  tiny  shreds.  Leaning  forward,  he  threw  the 
fragments  into  the  fire.  "Then  I'm  afraid  I  can't  add 
anything  to  what  you  already  know,"  he  said,  quietly, 
as  he  watched  them  burn. 

The  tall  figure  seemed  to  stiffen  in  surprise.  "Does 
that  mean  that  you  don't  trust  me?" 

"  Not  exactly.  I  do  trust  you.  Only,  you  must  see  that 
this  is  a  situation  in  which  I'm  unable  to  act." 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  see  that,  sir." 

Bainbridge  endeavored  to  explain.  "A  lady  did  come 
to  me — about  a  year  and  a  half  ago — a  lady  I  didn't  know 
— closely  veiled.  But  I've  no  positive  assurance  that  this 
letter  is  from  her."  As  the  Canadian  was  about  to  protest 
the  clergyman  went  on,  quickly,  "Even  if  I  had  it  wouldn't 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

make  any  difference,  for  the  reason  that  the  communica- 
tion made  to  me  then  was,  so  to  speak,  under  the  seal  of 
the  confessional." 

"But  when  she  herself  gives  you  permission — " 

"If  the  permission  were  better  guaranteed  than  it  is 
I  still  couldn't  avail  myself  of  it.  Whatever  there  is  to  be 
made  known  must  lie  between  you  and  her." 

"I've  asked  her  to  marry  me,"  the  stranger  said, 
abruptly. 

"I  inferred  that  it  was  something  like  that." 

"I  asked  her  once  before — years  ago — but  she  refused 
me." 

The  incoherent  story  Bainbridge  had  heard  from  her 
own  lips  began  to  come  back  to  him. 

"After  she  refused  me  I  married  some  one  else;  but 
my  wife  died  when  her  baby  was  born  the  next  year. 
The  child  died,  too."  For  the  space  of  a  minute  the  some- 
what expressionless,  handsome  face  grew  grave,  but  the 
cloud  passed  and  the  eyes  glinted  when  he  began  to 
speak  again.  "Now  that  she's  free — and  I'm  free — 
I've  come  back  to  her — with  the  result  that  she's  given 
me  this  letter  to  you." 

"And  no  other  answer?" 

"No  other  answer  as  yet." 

"Then  when  you  see  her  again  will  you  tell  her  that 
I'm  sorry,  but  that  I've  nothing  to  say?" 

"You  have  something  to  say,  if  you'll  only  say  it." 

There  was  a  tension  in  the  minute  which  made  it 
possible  for  the  glances  of  the  two  to  meet  in  a  searching 
regard,  without  self-consciousness  on  either  side.  What 
Bainbridge  saw  was  a  man  accustomed  to  be  obeyed; 
startled,  if  not  angered,  by  opposition.  He  answered 
carefully,  therefore. 

23 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

"You'll  do  me  a  great  favor,  sir,  if  you  consider  me  as 
having  given  my  reply." 

The  response  was  disconcerting.  "Which  leaves  a 
woman  who  may  be  innocent  under  suspicion.  Have 
you  thought  of  that?" 

Once  more  the  clergyman  was  obliged  to  choose  his 
words.  "Suspicion  is  chiefly  in  the  mind  of  the  person 
who  suspects.  It's  something  we  can  control,  even  when 
we  can't  altogether  get  away  from  it." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  understand  that  I  can't  altogether 
get  away  from  it?" 

"I  want  you  to  understand  nothing  whatever — from 
me.  Your  source  of  information  is  elsewhere,  if  you 
must  have  information." 

"It's  not  a  question  of  what  I  must  have,  but  of  what 
she  wants  me  to  know." 

"Then  she's  at  liberty  to  tell  you.  As  it  is,  one  of  two 
things  strikes  me  as  wise.  It  would  be  better  either  for 
you  not  to  press  the  matter  further,  or  for  her  to  take  on 
herself  the  responsibility  of  making  her  own  confidence." 

The  Canadian  responded  with  some  exasperation: 
"I  don't  want  to  press  the  matter  further,  the  Lord  only 
knows;  and  yet  now  that  the  question  has  been  raised. 
.  .  .  You  see,"  he  went  on,  in  another  tone,  "it  might  not 
be  right  for  me  in  my  situation  to  go  it  blind.  If  I  tell 
you  the  circumstances  you'll  understand  how  the  matter 
stands  with  me." 

Bainbridge  expressed  his  willingness  to  listen  to  any- 
thing his  visitor  chose  to  impart. 

"My  father,"  the  latter  stated,  "was  a  well-known 
Canadian  banker.  The  banking  profession  is  a  more 
important  national  institution  in  our  country  than  it  is  in 
this,  for  reasons  that  I  sha'n't  attempt  to  go  into.  I  was 

24 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

the  elder  of  the  two  sons,  and  succeeded  my  father  in  the 
business.  He  was  already  in  a  big  way  of  doing  things 
when  the  expansion  of  Canada,  which  began  in  the  middle 
nineties,  gave  him  further  openings.  He  was  a  philan- 
thropic, public-spirited  man,  not  unknown  in  the  United 
States—" 

"I  recognized  your  name,  without  having  anything 
exact  to  connect  with  it." 

"That  is,  you  recognized  my  father's  name.  He  was 
created  first  a  K.  C.  B.  and  afterward  a  baronet  by  Queen 
Victoria,  not  long  before  she  died.  That's  how  it  happens 
that  I've  a  handle  to  my  name,  when  I've  done  nothing 
to  deserve  it.  But  it's  not  wholly  to  the  point.  What  I 
want  you  to  see  is  that  I  can  give  my  wife  a  good  position 
— one  in  which  she'd  have,  within  reason,  brilliant 
opportunities." 

"I  can  quite  understand  that." 

"And,"  he  pursued,  not  wholly  with  ease,  "just  as  I 
like  to  feel  that  the  position  is  good  enough  for  her,  so 
I  want  to  be  sure  that — you  mustn't  think  me  fatuous 
or  an  ass! — I'm  not  a  very  young  man  any  longer  and  my 
situation  as  head  of  the  family  obliges  me  to  think  of  it! — 
so  I  want  to  be  sure — to  be  awfully  crude  and  put  it  into 
very  plain  language! — that  she's  good  enough  for  the 
position.  Do  you  see?" 

He  had  reddened  as  he  continued  to  speak,  though  Bain- 
bridge  was  too  deeply  interested  to  notice  it.  "Wouldn't 
that  depend  to  some  extent  on  what  you  mean  by  good? — 
and  good  enough?" 

"What  does  any  one  mean?  I  suppose  I'm  thinking  of 
the  usual  thing." 

"The  usual  thing,"  Bainbridge  repeated,  ponderingly, 
"doesn't  take  us  very  far,  does  it?" 

3  25 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

"If  it's  as  far  as  I  need  to  go,  why  isn't  it 
enough?" 

"If  it's  as  far  as  you  need  to  go — then,  sir,  I'm  afraid 
that  I  can't  make  any  other  suggestion." 

The  sympathetic  carnal  face  looked  blank.  "What 
other  suggestion  could  you  make?" 

"Only  one  that  might  help  you  to  another  idea  of 
goodness." 

The  puzzled,  uncomprehending  look  persisted.  "What 
is  it — the  other  idea  of  goodness?" 

"Merely  this,  that  goodness  isn't  wholly  in  doing  or  not 
doing  certain  things:  it's  in  a  point  of  view." 

"And  yet  where  there  has  to  be  a  point  of  view  there 
must  be  something  to  consider." 

"Isn't  there  always  something  to  consider?" 

"Not  always  something  mysterious  and  grave;  and 
where  a  woman  is  in  question  we  can  only  refer  the 
mysterious  and  grave  to  one  particular." 

"Whether  the  person  in  question  is  a  woman  or  a  man 
our  standard  of  right  action  has  to  be  the  same." 

"Our  standard  of  right  action?  I  don't  think  I  know 
what  you  mean." 

"I  mean  nothing  abstruse  or  far-fetched — nor  more  than 
the  ancient  law  we  call  the  golden  rule." 

"Oh!"  The  Canadian  pondered  on  this.  "That  is,  if 
— if  what — what  I'm  afraid  of  should  prove  true  I  ought 
to  stand  by  her  as,  in  the  same  set  of  circumstances,  I 
should  want  her  to  stand  by  me.  Is  that  it?" 

"I'm  not  applying  the  law;  I'm  only  pointing  it  out. 
All  I  say  is  that  it's  there,  and  that  life  becomes  very 
much  simplified  when  we  obey  it.  Whether  you  obey  it 
or  not  must  be  for  you  to  decide." 

As  the  banker  rose  slowly  to  his  feet  he  said,  dryly, 

26 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

"If  I  marry  her — and  she  marries  me — I  think  I  can 
say  it  will  not  be  for  any  such  reason  as  that." 

Bainbridge  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  his  head  against  the 
cushion,  gazing  up  at  this  splendid  sample  of  physical 
manhood.  That  so  lovable  a  giant  should  love  any 
woman  in  vain  seemed  scarcely  credible.  Vaguely  it 
came  back  to  him  that  his  veiled  visitor  had  confessed 
that  this  man  had  impressed  her,  that  if  he  had  only 
insisted.  .  .  .  But  aloud  he  said,  quietly,  "Then  unless 
you  change  your  mental  basis  I  think  it  very  likely  that 
you  won't  marry  her — and  that  if  you  do  marry  her  you 
will  both  come  to  grief." 

To  the  clergyman's  amazement  the  stranger  pressed 
the  back  of  his  gloved  left  hand  against  his  eyes,  as  if  to 
exclude  some  agonizing  vision,  while  the  lips  were  sharply 
contracted  as  in  the  effort  not  to  cry  out  in  pain.  It  was 
all  over  within  the  space  of  ten  seconds,  but  the  glimpse 
of  a  restrained  man's  suffering  was  one  which  a  looker-on 
would  not  soon  forget.  As  Bainbridge  got  himself  to 
his  feet  he  would  have  given  a  hand  to  be  able  to  say  that 
there  was  no  need  for  this  emotion ;  but  before  he  could 
speak  the  banker  had  control  of  himself  again.  That  is, 
he  was  able  to  turn  fiercely  on  his  host,  as  though  accusing 
him  of  some  wanton  form  of  crime,  and  say: 

"If  it  wasn't  true  you'd  tell  me." 

Bainbridge  answered  as  coldly  and  calmly  as  his  own 
sympathy  would  allow.  "  I  should  tell  you  nothing  what- 
ever. From  anything  I've  said  you've  no  right  to  draw  an 
inference.  The  confidence  made  to  me  is  as  sacred  in  the 
case  of  innocence  as  in  that  of  guilt."  His  face,  in  which 
there  was  always  a  glow,  became  radiant  as  he  added: 
"But  I'll  go  as  far  as  to  say  this,  that  a  man's  love  can  do 
anything  for  a  woman,  if  it's  of  the  right  sort — if  it's  big 

*? 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

enough  and  strong  enough  and  true  enough.  If  you 
yourself  can  supply  that — " 

"But  if  I  can't?  If  my  love  is  just — just  of  the  or- 
dinary kind?" 

"Then  you'll  have  to  make  it  of  the  extraordinary  kind 
or  pay  the  penalty." 

The  Canadian  glared  at  the  speaker  of  these  words  as  a 
big  dog  in  a  rage  glares  at  a  little  one  who  dares  to  with- 
stand him.  There  was  rejection  of  counsel  in  the  manner 
in  which  he  turned  away  and  strode  toward  the  hall. 

Bainbridge,  who  had  followed  his  guest  to  the  front  door, 
stood  with  his  hand  on  the  knob.  "Unfortunately  I  can 
say  no  more  than  I've  said  already,"  he  observed  then. 
"You're  in  a  place  in  which  a  man  must  act  entirely  for 
himself.  I  would  only  beg  you  not  to  forget  the  redeem- 
ing quality  that  belongs  to  the  higher  kind  of  love — 

The  other  man  had  by  this  time  resumed  the  manner 
of  conventional  intercourse.  "I'm  afraid  I  can't  go  in  for 
the  fine  points,"  he  said,  with  a  wistful  smile.  "If  I'm  in 
love,  it's  in  the  way  that  other  men  are.  All  the  same, 
I'll  try  to  think  of  what  you've  said."  He  held  out  his 
hand.  "Good-by — and  thank  you.  If  we  ever  meet 
again,  and  you  should  find  me  married,  I  should  trust  to 
your  discretion." 

"You  forget,"  the  clergyman  corrected,  in  opening  the 
door,  "that  if  I  should  find  you  married  I  shouldn't  know 
whether  it  was  to  this  particular  lady  or  to  some  one  else." 

"Quite  so,"  the  banker  assented,  as  he  began  to  descend 
the  steps.  "  I  had  forgotten  that." 


CHAPTER  III 

ONCE  more  the  curtain  was  rung  down  on  the  drama 
of  which  Bainbridge  had  taken  part  in  but  two  small 
scenes.  Another  year  and  a  half  went  by,  bringing  him  to 
the  age  of  thirty-three,  before  he  was  obliged  to  recur  to  it. 

Once  more,  too,  the  pressure  of  small  happenings  had 
almost  crowded  both  incidents  from  his  memory.  He  did 
not,  of  course,  forget  the  coming  to  him  either  of  the 
veiled  woman  or  of  Sir  Malcolm  Grant,  but  he  forgot, 
partially,  what  they  had  told  him.  Many  people  were 
beginning  to  seek  him  with  their  confidences,  financial, 
domestic,  religious,  and  in  the  course  of  time  one  such 
event  melted  into  another.  He  made  no  notes,  as  a  doctor 
of  the  names  and  symptoms  of  his  patients,  and  as  a 
matter  of  fact  was  only  too  glad  to  let  the  details  of 
perplexity  and  care  pass  into  that  mental  limbo  which  was 
all  but  oblivion.  When  the  same  person  came  to  him  the 
second  time  he  was  generally  able  to  take  up  the  narrative 
where  it  had  been  dropped;  but,  as  a  rule,  one  man's 
troubles  pushed  another's  from  his  mind,  till  a  need 
arose  for  going  back  to  them. 

Malcolm  Grant  became  to  him,  therefore,  but  a  dim 
Herculean  Scotch-Canadian  with  whom  he  had  once  had 
a  few  minutes  of  intimate  talk.  At  long  intervals  he  saw 
his  name  in  the  papers,  as  being  at  one  or  another  of  the 
New  York  hotels,  or  as  the  head  of  a  house  taking  part  in 

29 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

some  large  enterprise  in  Canada,  Cuba,  or  South  America. 
Once  or  twice,  in  conversation  with  Canadians  whom  he 
chanced  to  meet,  it  occurred  to  him  to  ask  if  the  baronet 
had  married,  but  he  repressed  the  inquiry  as  verging  too 
closely  on  mere  curiosity.  He  speculated  now  and  then 
on  what  might  have  happened  between  Grant  and  the 
woman  after  the  former  had  left  his  door;  but  as  far  as  he 
was  able  to  control  his  thoughts,  he  kept  himself  from  doing 
even  that.  He  made  it  a  point  of  honor  to  believe  that  a 
man  in  his  position  should  give  himself  wholly  for  the 
moment  to  the  sins  and  sorrows  that  were  being  aired, 
and  then  dismiss  all  recollection  of  them  from  his  mind. 
He  found  that  in  proportion  as  he  could  put  these  secrets 
away  till  it  became  necessary  to  take  them  up  again  he 
won  peace  for  himself  and  ease  of  manner  for  his  con- 
fidants, when  he  met  them  again. 

Finding  himself  useful,  he  saw  the  cityin which  he  labored 
with  more  and  more  sympathetic  eyes.  The  rush,  the 
din,  the  brutality  grew  incidental.  His  parish,  of  which 
he  was  assistant  rector,  became  a  little  world  in  itself,  in 
which  he  was  brought  into  contact  with  the  whole  round 
of  human  nature  in  epitome. 

If  you  know  New  York  you  must  know  St.  Mary 
Magdalen's — the  quaint,  dumpy,  architecturally  mon- 
strous, sentimentally  attractive,  red-brick  church  with 
Doric  brownstone  portico,  between  Forty-seventh  and 
Forty-eighth  streets,  on  the  right-hand  side  as  you  go 
toward  the  Park.  Erected  in  the  days  when  there  was 
not  too  much  money  to  spend  on  it,  it  is  now  adorned  with 
costly  offerings  wherever  the  authorities  can  put  them. 
Its  bronze  doors  have  been  copied  from  those  of  the 
baptistry  in  Florence,  its  stained-glass  windows  from 
Chartres  and  Bourges,  its  choir-stalls  from  Lincoln, 

30 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

its  reredos  from  Canterbury,  its  pulpit  from  Cologne. 
Merely  to  go  round  it  is  to  make  a  miniature  grand  tour. 
To  read  the  names  of  the  owners  of  the  pews,  inscribed 
on  little  brass-framed  cards  on  the  desks  for  books  of  de- 
votion, is  to  come  close  to  people  of  the  first  distinction. 
Something  of  their  personalities  seems  to  linger  in  these 
consecrated  seats,  though  they  themselves  may  be  as  far 
away  as  Deauville,  Lenox,  or  England.  Up  the  aisles 
have  marched  many  of  New  York's  most  historic  brides, 
now  wearing  coronets  and  adorning  chateaux  and  castles. 
The  vested  choir  is  the  best  and  most  expensive  in  the 
country ;  the  organist  was  tempted  away  by  an  astonish- 
ing salary  from  a  work  he  liked  better  at  Wells.  All  that 
is  high-priced  and  handsome  is  provided  at  St.  Mary 
Magdalen's  and  offered  to  the  public  free  of  charge. 

Old  Doctor  Galloway,  the  rector,  had  been  responsible 
for  this  elaboration,  in  which  Bainbridge  tried  to  see  an 
instrument  ready  to  his  hand.  In  mere  ecclesiastical  dash 
and  splash  it  had  been  his  task  to  discover  a  soul,  and 
indeed  he  had  been  selected  for  that  purpose. 
^/  "You  see,"  Doctor  Galloway  explained,  at  their  first 
interview  in  Boston,  "  I'm  an  organizer.  Primarily  I'm  a 
man  of  business.  When  Mannering  left  and  I  succeeded 
him,  thirty-odd  years  ago,  there  was  a  good  deal  at  loose 
ends.  Now  everything's  shipshape,  and  we've  all  the 
money  we  want.  But  what  we  haven't  got  is  the  thing 
for  which  this  well-equipped  institution  has  been  planned 
and  supported.  As  far  as  that  goes,  St.  Mary  Magdalen's 
is  a  barren  fig-tree.  New  York's  as  rich  a  field  for  it  as 
any  heathen  land,  and  yet  it's  out  of  my  line  to  give. 
You'd  find  me  as  much  in  need  of  it  as  any  one." 

Bainbridge,  who  was  then  but  twenty-nine,  looked  at  the 
leonine  white  head  in  dismay.    No  lieutenant  who  had 

31 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

been  asked  by  a  general  to  come  and  command  an  army 
could  have  a  keener  sense  of  the  irony  of  the  invitation 
accorded  him.  He  urged  his  age,  his  inexperience,  his 
incompetence. 

"  Don't  expect  you  to  do  everything  all  at  once,"  the  old 
man  replied.  "What  I'm  looking  for  is  some  one  who'll 
grow  up  to  the  work,  so  that  by  the  time  he's  equal  to  it 
he'll  know  its  ins  and  outs.  You  can't  bring  a  mature 
man  from  Chicago  or  San  Francisco  to  New  York  and 
expect  him  to  find  the  methods  used  in  the  one  place 
adapted  to  the  needs  of  the  other.  Civilization  in  our 
country  is  not  national  so  much  as  it's  civic.  We're  a 
congeries  of  little  municipal  republics,  each  with  its  tricks 
and  passwords.  New  York  has  them,  just  like  Boston  or 
St.  Louis  or  St.  Paul.  Come  and  learn  them,  so  that 
when  you're  ripe  for  it  you  can  do  us  good." 

He  went  on  further  to  explain  the  peculiar  composition 
of  St.  Mary  Magdalen's.  It  was  made  up  of  strata  run- 
ning in  parallel  lines,  each  superimposed  on  the  other. 
First  there  was  the  original  bedrock  of  old  New  York 
families,  mostly  of  great  wealth,  who  owned  the  pews  and 
used  them  but  spasmodically.  Above  them  were  to  be 
found  people  of  the  same  antecedents  but  of  more  moderate 
means,  like  the  Endsleighs,  the  Jarrotts,  the  Colfaxes, 
and  the  Pallisers,  who  habitually  lived  in  New  York  and 
carried  the  workings  of  the  parish  on  their  shoulders. 
Above  them,  but  independent  of  them,  was  the  transient 
contribution  made  by  the  great  hotels  and  apartment- 
houses  which  during  ten  years  had  sprung  up  between 
Forty-second  Street  and  the  southern  edge  of  the  Park. 
Above  them,  again,  numerous  enough  to  be  noticeable,  was 
the  variety  of  worshiper  that  only  America  could  furnish, 
who  .attended  St.  Mary  Magdalen's  because  it  was  in 

32 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

Fifth  Avenue  and  within  its  walls  they  rubbed  elbows 
with  people  of  whom  otherwise  they  knew  nothing  but 
the  names  and  the  scandals.  On  the  surface  of  all  was 
the  mere  human  dust,  the  sight-seers,  the  passers  of  a 
month  or  a  day,  who,  finding  themselves  with  a  Sunday 
or  two  to  spend  in  New  York,  took  in  this  show  as  they 
took  in  other  shows,  coming  to  hear  the  music  and  watch 
the  great  people  at  prayer — and  seeing  chiefly  one  an- 
other. And  in  and  out  among  them  all,  a  few  from  one 
class  and  a  few  from  another,  were  scattered  those  kindly, 
honest,  and  consecrated  souls  who  stood  for  what  is  best 
in  human  life  and  made  all  the  effort  and  expense  worth 
while. 

To  his  vestry,  when  he  returned,  he  spoke  of  the  young 
man  as  no  abler  and  no  more  energetic  than  many  another 
young  man.  His  recommendation  was  that  he  had 
spiritual  insight;  he  had  that  endowment  without  which, 
in  the  ministry,  no  other  endowment  has  value,  of  com- 
municable goodness.  When  it  was  added  that  the  young 
fellow  was  of  clean,  sympathetic  appearance,  of  a  good 
Boston  family,  and  had  private  means,  it  seemed  to  the 
worthy  professional  and  business  men  who  governed  St. 
Mary  Magdalen's  that  they  had  discovered  the  teacher 
of  whom  they  were  in  need,  however  little  they  bound 
themselves  to  follow  his  example. 

All  that  having  been  four  years  earlier,  Bainbridge 
found  that  little  by  little  the  indications  given  him  were 
fulfilled,  and  had  been  able  to  "shake  down."  Dif- 
ficult as  the  latter  process  had  been,  he  had  lived  through 
it  with  success.  He  was  happy,  therefore,  in  his  work, 
while  the  appeal  which  people  of  all  kinds  and  characters 
made  to  him  for  counsel  established  that  conviction — 
illusory,  perhaps — of  being  essential  to  his  task,  which 

33 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

makes  for  enthusiasm  in  fulfilling  it.  He  was  never 
thoroughly  content  when  away  from  it.  This  man's  sins 
or  that  woman's  cares  were  generally  on  his  mind.  The 
great  city  having  thus  become  not  merely  a  home  to  him, 
but  the  source  of  those  actions  and  reactions,  tragic, 
comic,  social,  moral,  and  emotional,  which  express  the 
dynamic  energies  of  life,  he  drew  daily  stimulation  from 
its  vigor. 

And  that  a  man  so  happy,  so  successful,  so  good-looking, 
and  so  well-to-do  should  still  be  unmarried  became  a  stone 
of  stumbling  to  every  second  woman  who  attended  St. 
Mary  Magdalen's.  Bainbridge  knew  this  in  a  general 
way,  and  smiled  within  himself.  He  had  no  definite  in- 
tention of  being  married,  not  even  to  Mary  Galloway, 
the  rector's  daughter,  on  whom  the  concensus  of  parochial 
opinion  bestowed  him,  though  she  was  one  of  the  sweetest 
girls  he  knew. 

He  made  this  last  admission  on  a  morning  in  the  autumn 
when  Mary  Galloway  stopped  him  on  the  rectory  steps, 
as  he  was  coming  away  from  a  conference  with  her  father. 
Her  smile  was  an.  apology  for  interrupting  his  course 
toward  Fifth  Avenue. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Bainbridge,"  she  said,  in  the  tinkling,  crys- 
talline voice  which  held  a  hint  of  jest  in  reserve  "I  just 
want  to  remind  you  that  poor  Miss  Higgins's  reception 
comes  this  afternoon.  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say 
— that  you  won't  have  time.  But  do  look  in  on  her,  if 
it's  only  for  five  minutes.  It  will  give  her  so  much  pleas- 
ure— and  the  poor  thing  doesn't  have  a  great  deal.  I'm 
drumming  up  all  the  people  I  know." 

He  answered  more  or  less  at  random,  because  he  was 
saying  to  himself  that  if  it  was  in  him  to  fall  in  love  again 
this  was  probably  his  opportunity.  He  noticed,  too,  that 

34 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

the  crisp  autumn  morning  had  given  her  a  color  for  which 
no  word  in  the  language  and  no  tint  in  the  painter's 
palette  was  precisely  adequate.  She  must  now,  he 
reckoned,  be  twenty-six,  as  she  had  been  twenty-two 
the  year  of  his  coming  to  New  York.  In  refinement  she 
was  a  lady  to  the  finger-tips,  nor  did  she  lack  a  demure 
prettiness,  behind  which  there  was  a  dash  of  fun.  She  had 
been  abroad  during  most  of  his  first  two  years  at  St.  Mary 
Magdalen's,  but  he  had  remarked  that  since  her  return  she 
had  adopted,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  a  policy  of  keep- 
ing out  of  sight.  That  this  withdrawal  had  anything 
to  do  with  himself  personally  it  had  never  occurred  to 
him  to  think,  nor  did  it  so  occur  now.  It  only  led  him 
to  say,  after  glancing  at  his  engagement-book  and  promis- 
ing to  look  in  at  Miss  Higgins's,  "Where  have  you  been 
this  long  time  and  why  does  one  never  see  you?" 

Her  answer  was  delivered  with  a  scornful  little  smile 
and  a  toss  of  the  head  which  might  have  been  a  mask  for 
shyness  rather  than  an  expression  of  disdain.  "That 
depends  on  whom  you  mean  by  one.  Some  people  see 
me." 

"I  never  do — or  rarely." 

"That's  because  you're  not  in  the  places  where  I  am. 
But  I  assure  you  I  don't  become  invisible." 

"Then  I  shall  count  on  you  to  look  after  me  at  Miss 
Higgins's  this  afternoon,"  he  called  after  her,  as  she  ran 
up  the  steps. 

"Oh,  poor  Miss  Higgins!"  she  threw  over  her  shoulder. 
"If  you'll  only  come  I'll  do  anything." 

And  yet  when  he  arrived  at  Miss  Higgins's  apartment, 
in  a  small  residential  hotel  between  Fifth  and  Sixth 
avenues,  Mary  Galloway  didn't  give  him  so  much  as  a 
glance.  Helping  the  hostess,  serving  tea,  introducing 

35 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

guests,  moving  hither  and  yon  through  the  crowded  tiny 
parlor,  in  which  it  was  difficult  to  stir  or  to  breathe,  she 
seemed  unaware  that  he  was  in  the  room.  Miss  Higgins 
herself,  a  tall,  gaunt  woman,  suggesting  an  ostrich  meta- 
morphosed into  human  form,  was  so  arch  as  to  mention 
her  in  the  act  of  shaking  hands  with  him. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Bainbridge!  So  flattered,  I'm  sure!  So  good 
of  you  to  have  come!  And  Mary  will  be  so  pleased. 
She's  helped  me  so  much  that  it's  really  her  party  more 
than  mine.  So  sweet,  she  is.  You  can  see  her  now, 
talking  to  old  Mrs.  Colfax — just  there — with,  the  olive- 
green  hat.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Jarrott?  So 
flattered,  I'm  sure.  So  good  of  you  to  have  come!  Mrs. 
Jarrott,  do  you  know  Mr.  Bainbridge?  .  .  .  Oh,  how  do 
you  do,  Mrs.  Palliser?  So  flattered,  I'm  sure.  So  good 
of  you  to  have  come.  Mrs.  Palliser,  do  you  know  Mr. 
Bainbridge?  .  .  .  Oh.how  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Mortimer.  ..." 

With  the  mechanical  repetition  of  a  doll  wound  up  to 
say  so  many  words  and  make  so  many  smiling  grimaces 
Miss  Higgins  went  on  with  the  task  of  welcoming  her 
guests,  while  Bainbridge  found  himself  slowly  swirled 
away,  like  a  plum  in  a  boiling  pudding,  in  company  with 
the  woman  he  knew  best  in  New  York. 

"So  you're  here!"  Mrs.  Palliser  gasped.  "Well,  for 
pity's  sake!  More  of  Mary's  doings,  I  suppose.  If  she 
hadn't  dragged  me  in  by  the  hair  of  my  head  Miss  Hig- 
gins wouldn't  have  seen  so  much  as  my  shadow.  The 
people  look  like  job  lots  at  an  auction,"  she  whispered. 
"Do  come  over  into  that  corner  with  the  little  red  sofa 
behind  the  palms,  and  let  us  sit  down." 

Beneath  the  high  yapping  of  voices,  which,  if  you 
listened  to  it  consciously,  became  persistent,  pitiless,  and 
infernal,  Mrs.  Palliser  could  make  herself  heard  by  speak- 

36 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

ing  in  a  low  and  perfectly  natural  tone.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  Charlie  Endsleigh,  a  pioneer  in  developing  the 
upper  reaches  of  Fifth  Avenue,  from  whom  she  had  in- 
herited her  not  inconsiderable  fortune.  As  an  Endsleigh 
she  was  related  to  the  Colfaxes,  the  Jarrotts,  and  the 
Wrenns,  which  placed  her  in  that  circle  in  New  York 
identified  with  religion,  education,  and  philanthropy. 
The  fact  posed  her  solidly  on  ground  on  which  she  had 
authority.  Authority  was  written  on  her  face  and 
figure,  and  translated  in  her  manners  and  her  tone  of 
voice.  She  was  invariably  mentioned  as  a  fine-looking 
woman,  being  tall  and  statuesque,  with  fairly  good 
features  and  a  slight  inclination  to  be  florid.  Moreover, 
she  was  breezy,  high-tempered,  and  imperious.  She  was 
outspoken,  too,  with  the  frankness  of  one  who  has  a  right 
to  express  her  opinion. 

Bainbridge  listened  with  amusement  as  from  the 
vantage-point  of  the  sofa  in  the  corner  she  denounced  the 
company. 

"  In  all  my  life  I've  never  looked  at  such  a  crew.  There 
are  not  more  than  six  people  whom  I  know — whom  any- 
body knows — and  the  six  are  my  own  relations.  Why, 
Mary  Galloway  should  have  got  us  here  I  can't  imagine 
to  save  my  soul.  Why  should  any  one  be  here?  and  why 
should  a  person  like  Miss  Higgins  want  to  give  a  party? 
Can't  the  good  woman  see  that  her  very  existence  is 
matter  of  easy-going  social  tolerance,  and  keep  herself 
to  the  background  where  she  belongs?" 

On  a  question  or  two  from  Bainbridge,  who  knew 
Miss  Higgins  only  as  a  figure  flitting  in  and  out  of  St. 
Mary  Magdalen's,  especially  at  important  weddings  and 
funerals,  Mrs.  Palliser  accounted  for  her  hostess  with  some 
detail,  The  clergyman  listened,  for  the  reason  that  he 

37 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

found  it  profitable  to  know  all  he  could  learn  about 
each  of  his  parishioners,  without  paying  attention  to 
gossip.  For  him  Miss  Higgins  was  more  than  an  old 
maid,  struggling,  probably  on  narrow  means,  to  keep 
a  footing  in  New  York.  In  spite  of  her  mildly  grotesque 
appearance  and  her  simpering  smiles  she  was  a  human 
being,  like  any  other — a  human  being  with  hopes  and 
cares  and  heartaches,  to  whom  he  might  on  some  occasion 
possibly  be  useful. 

Miss  Higgins,  according  to  Mrs.  Palliser,  had  never 
really  been  "in  society,"  but  then  she  had  never  really 
been  out  of  it.  She  was  asked  to  big  things — things  to 
which  every  one  to  whom  any  one  owed  anything  came  in 
hordes.  No  one  knew  exactly  what  was  owing  to  Miss 
Higgins  beyond  the  fact  that  on  such  occasions  she  was 
generally  invited.  It  would  have  been  taxing  the  memory 
too  far  to  go  back  to  the  period  in  the  middle  eighties 
when  old  Peter  Higgins  had  begun  to  make  a  splurge,  for 
the  splurge,  having  risen  and  come  in  like  a  tidal  wave,  had 
subsided  and  gone  out  in  the  same  way,  leaving  Miss 
Higgins  landed  and  stranded  on  the  shore.  On  the 
shore  she  had  remained,  never  climbing  up  the  bank,  but 
never  slipping  back  into  the  water. 

JL^"It  isn't  so  much  that  people  know  her,"  Mrs.  Palliser 
continued  to  explain,  "as  it  is  that  they're  used  to  seeing 
her,  in  the  way  they're  used  to  seeing  certain  shadows 
at  certain  hours  of  the  day.  She  minces  in  and  out  of 
drawing-rooms  as  inoffensively  as  a  spirit  and  almost  as 
unperceived.  From  November  to  May  you'll  find  her 
standing  in  corners  and  drinking  uncountable  cups  of  tea, 
but  the  poor  soul  doesn't  do  any  one  any  harm  and  makes 
an  enemy  of  no  one." 

"Not  even  of  you?"  Bainbridge  smiled, 

38 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

"Good  gracious,  no!  Why  should  I  be  her  enemy? 
You  might  as  well  be  the  enemy  of  a  sheep." 

He  remembered  these  words  and  this  tone  when,  not 
long  afterward,  he  learned  that  Miss  Higgins  was  a 
power  in  New  York,  and  toyed  with  love  and  destiny  as 
if  she  was  one  of  the  three  Fates. 

But  Mrs.  Palliser  had  already  had  enough  of  a  subject 
which  she  regarded  as  tiresome.  Without  preamble  or 
transition  she  went  on  abruptly  to  say,  "Isn't  Mary  too 
sweet  for  anything?"  Before  Bainbridge  could  agree 
with  her  she  added,  "Why  on  earth  don't  you  marry 
her?" 

He  laughed  good-naturedly.  It  was  not  the  first  time 
she  had  attacked  him  thus,  though  perhaps  never  so 
directly  from  the  front.  After  all,  she  was  the  one 
woman  in  New  York  who  could  take  this  liberty,  for  she 
and  her  husband  had  had  him  under  their  wing  ever 
since  his  early  days  at  St.  Mary  Magdalen's.  Being  a 
few  years  older  than  he,  they  had  been  able  to  act  as 
social  counselors  and  guides  to  the  young  Bostonian  with- 
out losing  the  fellowship  of  contemporaneous  sympathies. 
He  came  to  be  at  ease  with  them,  to  be  able  to  unbend 
in  their  company  as  he  never  did  elsewhere.  As  time 
went  on  Mrs.  Palliser  began  to  throw  a  motherly  eye  over 
his  bachelor  establishment,  seeing  that  Mrs.  Wedlock 
cleaned  it  in  the  proper  way  on  the  proper  occasions 
and  gave  him  proper  food  to  eat.  For  this  he  was  grateful 
for  the  motive  rather  than  for  the  result,  while  the  ties 
of  intimacy  were  strengthened. 

As  for  the  present  question,  his  instinct  was  to  hedge 
rather  than  to  face  it  openly.  "Isn't  marriage  a  matter 
to  be  tackled  from  the  positive  rather  than  the  negative 
point  of  view  ?  If  you  go  round  asking  every  one  why  they 

39 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

don't  marry  some  one  else,  who  knows  where  you'll  come 
out?" 

She  answered,  while  taking  a  cup  of  tea  from  a  neat  little 
maid  who  passed  it  on  a  tray.  "My  dear  good  man, 
where  I  come  out  is  my  own  affair.  I  can  take  care  of 
myself  if  you  could  do  the  same  for  yoiirseli." 

"I  should  like  to  be  allowed  to  make  the  attempt." 

"Yes;  like  a  child  walking  in  his  sleep.  When  it  comes 
to  marriage  a  man  like  you  is  as  fit  to  take  care  of  himself 
as  a  stray  pet  lamb  to  avoid  the  traffic  in  Broadway. 
If  the  right  woman  doesn't  get  you  the  wrong  one  will; 
and  that  you  can  take  from  me." 

"I'm  willing  to  take  anything  from  you,  as  I'm  sure  you 
must  know.  But  may  I  ask  if  you  see  any  signs  of  it?" 

"It's  not  a  question  of  what  I  see  signs  of;  it's  only  one 
of  what  happens.  The  longer  I  know  you're  going  round 
loose  the  more  wretched  it  makes  me." 

"  I  see;  I  see.  You  want  me  to  marry  for  your  peace  of 
mind,  not  for  my  own.  Of  course  when  you  put  it  that 
way,  anything  I  can  do — " 

"I  don't  put  it  that  way.  It's  nothing  to  me,  further 
than  that  I  want  to  see  you  safe." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  let  you  know  the  minute  I  feel  in 
danger." 

"When  I  can't  do  any  good.  Nine  times  out  of  ten  a 
drowning  man  doesn't  know  he's  drowning  till  it's  too  late 
to  pull  him  out.  And  when  you  could  have  a  girl  like 
Mary  Galloway — " 

"Ah,  but  could  I?" 

"  You  might  if  you  tried.  I  don't  say  she's  breaking  her 
heart  for  you,  but  .  .  .  Ah,  well!"  She  rose  with  a  sigh, 
while  he  placed  her  empty  cup  on  a  near-by  table.  "If 
she  won't  do  I  shall  have  to  find  some  one  else  who  will." 

40 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"Please  don't  let  me  put  you  to  any  trouble." 

"You  put  me  to  a  great  deal  of  trouble;  but  it's  nothing 
to  what  I'm  willing  to  take  for  you.  Now  I  come  to  think 
of  it,  I  do  know  a  woman  who  might  care  to  look  you 
over." 

"  Oh,  but  I  might  balk  at  that." 

"Since  you're  bound  to  be  some  woman's  prey  a  good 
one  might  as  well  have  the  refusal  of  you — even  if  she 
turns  you  down." 

"But  you  won't  let  her  take  me  by  surprise?" 

"She  won't  take  you  by  surprise,  because  you  won't 
know  anything  about  her.  She'll  come  and  go  without 
your  seeing  that  she's  been  there.  If  I  don't  get  out  of 
this  rat-trap,"  she  exclaimed,  holding  out  her  hand  to 
him,  "I  shall  smother.  Good-by.  Think  over  what  I've 
been  saying,  and  don't  forget  the  twenty-ninth." 

He  looked  blank.     "The  twenty-ninth?" 

"Don't  tell  me  you've  forgotten  that  you're  going  to 
dine  with  us  that  night.  If  you  have,  then  all  is  over 
between  you  and  me.  But  I  give  you  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt  and  leave  you.  Go  and  tell  Mary  that  I  shall 
never  forgive  her  for  bringing  me  to  this  ridiculous  zoo." 

Through  the  seething  of  the  human  whirlpool  he  made 
his  way  toward  Mary  Galloway.  "Is  this  the  way  you 
look  after  me?"  he  asked.  "Don't  you  remember  what 
you  promised  to  do  if  I  came?" 

When  his  words  brought  a  new  shade  of  color  to  her 
cheek  he  thought  he  had  never  seen  anything  so  exquisite. 
Nevertheless,  she  tossed  her  head  with  that  air  of  disdain 
which  might  have  been  no  more  than  a  covering  for  shy- 
ness as  she  said,  "I  saw  you  were  very  well  protected." 

"Did  you?  But  there  are  times  when  a  man  doesn't 
need  protection  so  much  as  sympathy." 

4  41 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"Was  this  one?" 

He  thought  of  what  Mrs.  Palliser  had  been  saying  and 
laughed.  "  I  almost  think  it  was — if  rightly  understood." 

"Then  before  I  offer  you  the  sympathy  I  must  have  the 
right  understanding." 

"Ah,  that's  not  so  easy,"  he  was  able  to  say  before  a 
new  revolution  in  the  crowd  carried  him  away  from  her 
and  he  turned  to  take  leave  of  his  hostess. 

But  he  was  asking  himself  if,  after  all,  Mrs.  Pailiser 
might  not  be  right.  He  was  not  in  love  with  Mary 
Galloway — not  as  yet — but  if  he  could  be — and  he  ever 
meant  to  marry  at  all.  .  .  . 

He  was  in  the  gloomy  little  outside  hall,  waiting  for  the 
lift,  as  he  began  making  these  reflections,  but  he  was 
destined  not  to  pursue  them.  The  lift  came  to  a  sudden 
stop  within  its  grille  and  the  door  was  slid  open. 

The  next  two  minutes  remained  in  Bainbridge's  mind 
as  a  period  of  impressions  so  rapid,  so  sharp,  and  so  definite 
as  to  obliterate  the  sense  of  time  and  make  him  feel  that 
he  had  lived  through  an  experience. 

A  woman  who  had  been  sitting  on  the  lift's  little  red- 
cushioned  bench  rose  and  made  the  one  step  necessary 
to  reach  the  door.  She  was  a  tall,  slender  woman,  richly 
dressed.  Dark-brown  plumes  and  velvet,  against  which 
a  row  of  great  pearls  caught  the  eye  strikingly,  were  but 
details  in  a  picture  vividly  imprinted  on  his  mind  as  one 
of  extraordinary  distinction.  His  memory  would  have 
recorded  it  if  she  had  merely  passed  him  in  the  street; 
but,  as  it  was,  what  happened  within  the  next  few  seconds 
burned  it  in  as  something  he  could  not  forget. 

On  the  threshold  of  the  lift,  before  she  had  stepped  out 
of  it,  the  woman  raised  her  eyes,  which  he  could  see  were 
dark  and  curiously  deep — started — drew  back — turned 

42 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

as  if  looking  for  something  she  had  left  or  seeking  another 
exit  from  the  cage  in  which  she  found  herself  caught — 
turned  again — confronted  him  with  a  quick,  piteous  glance 
— stepped  out  and  passed  onward,  with  a  slight  inclination 
of  a  stately  head  as  he  raised  his  hat.  Miss  Higgins's 
man  in  livery,  engaged  for  the  afternoon,  having  opened 
the  door,  she  disappeared  swiftly  within,  leaving  Bain- 
bridge  staring  after. 

"Going  down,  sir,"  the  lift-boy  was  obliged  to  remind 
him  before  he  could  sufficiently  collect  his  wits  to  enter 
and  descend. 


CHAPTER  IV 

BUT  on  the  twenty-ninth  Bainbridge  saw  this  woman 
for  the  second  time.  Indeed,  he  found  himself  sitting 
beside  her  without  realizing  for  the  first  half-hour  who 
she  was. 

It  was  a  large  party,  made  up  chiefly  of  people  whom  he 
didn't  know,  and  he  had  arrived  too  late  to  be  introduced 
to  any  one.  From  the  card  handed  to  him  by  the  footman 
he  understood  that  he  was  to  take  in  Mary  Galloway, 
and  after  having  saluted  Leslie  and  Maggie  Palliser,  his 
host  and  hostess,  he  sought  her  out.  Dinner  being  an- 
nounced at  once,  he  had  no  opportunity  to  look  about 
him  till  he  was  seated  at  the  table. 

Even  then  he  was  absorbed  by  his  little  neighbor  on 
the  right.  She  was  touchingly  lovely,  he  thought,  in 
white  without  an  ornament,  and  with  only  a  swaying 
girdle  of  rose-pink  to  reflect  the  carmine  in  her  cheeks. 
He  was  glad  to  have  her  there,  glad  to  be  beside  her. 
During  his  years  of  dining  out  in  New  York  this  precise 
situation  had  never  arisen  before.  It  was  an  opportunity 
to  know  her  better,  to  overcome  the  defensive  of  hostility 
or  scorn  she  put  up  nervously  whenever  he  approached  her. 

"I  haven't  seen  you  since  the  afternoon  at  Miss  Hig- 
gins's,"  he  began,  as  he  unfolded  his  napkin.  "If  num- 
bers mean  anything  you  made  her  party  a  success." 

The  crystalline  tinkle  in  her  voice  penetrated  the  up- 

44 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

roar,  which  in  an  American  gathering  begins  with  the 
moment  of  sitting  down  to  table,  with  the  clear  sound  of 
a  silver  bell.  "I  dare  say  it  wasn't  worth  doing,  but — " 

"On  the  contrary,  it  seems  to  me  well  worth  doing. 
You  made  her  happy — " 

"Yes,  but  happy  only  in  the  way  of  seeing  well-known 
people  in  her  little  parlor." 

"But  she  was  happy  just  the  same.  That's  something, 
isn't  it?" 

She  trifled  with  her  caviar.  "Yes,  it's  something; 
it's  what  most  people  call  snobbery." 

"And  what  do  you  call  it?" 

"Oh,  snobbery,  too." 

"And  yet  you  helped  her  out." 

"Because  I  couldn't  see  what  else  to  do." 

"Exactly;  we've  got  to  take  people  as  they  are — with 
their  limitations.  If  having  well-known  people  in  her 
parlor  is  the  best  thing  Miss  Higgins  knows,  let  us  help 
her  get  it — till  she  sees  that  it  isn't  worth  while  and 
makes  a  try  at  something  better." 

She  lifted  to  him  eyes  that,  in  spite  of  being  soft  and 
shy,  had  a  sparkle  of  fun  in  them.  "I'm  surprised  to 
hear  you  speak  like  that.  I  should  have  supposed  that 
snobbishness  would  be  one  of  the  things  you'd  be  hard 
on." 

"If  one  is  out  for  big  game  one  can't  let  oneself  be 
worried  by  a  fly.  Snobbishness  is  not  a  crime;  it's  a 
weakness — like  a  cast  in  the  eye  or  a  stutter.  I  don't 
know  anything  that  will  get  the  better  of  it  more  quickly 
than  toleration  and  giving  it  what  it  wants." 

So  they  talked  on  through  the  first  few  courses  of  dinner, 
while  the  defiance  of  her  manner  melted,  and  he  himself 
wondered  more  and  more  if  Maggie  Palliser  might  not 

45 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

be  right.  He  could  easily  imagine  himself  in  love  with 
Mary  Galloway.  He  could  imagine  their  marriage.  He 
could  foresee  the  whole  housekeeping  process  as  one  of 
ease  and  delight,  while  her  aid  in  the  social  side  of  the 
working  of  a  parish  would  be  that  of  a  second  in  com- 
mand no  less  charming  than  efficient.  She  knew  that 
aspect  of  St.  Mary  Magdalen's  better  than  he  did  himself, 
and  after  all  the  kindness  that  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Galloway 
had  shown  him,  nothing  would  be  more  fitting  than  that 
he  should  become  their  son-in-law — if  he  only  could. 

If  he  only  could !  More  than  once  he  repeated  the  words 
to  himself  as  they  talked  of  literature,  society,  and  ethics, 
and  he  noticed  how  responsive  she  was  to  his  points. 
It  was  the  kind  of  responsiveness  a  man  likes  in  a  wife, 
with  enough  opposition  to  act  as  a  whetstone  to  discus- 
sion and  a  fluttering  common  sense  in  yielding  to  con- 
viction. It  was  supplementary,  too,  with  a  promise  of 
that  sex-combination  which  in  his  opinion  should  take  the 
place  of  the  sex-competition  of  modern  argument  and 
conflict.  If  he  only  could! — and,  he  reflected,  there  was 
no  reason  why  he  shouldn't.  Time  would  accomplish  it, 
and  propinquity.  It  was  notorious  that  time  and  pro- 
pinquity were  the  determining  factors  in  nine  marriages 
out  of  ten.  They  were  the  product  of  hazards  and 
sympathies.  Between  Mary  Galloway  and  himself  there 
might  easily  be  more  than  these — if  he  would  have  pa- 
tience and  wait. 

He  found  it  pleasant  to  meditate  thus,  as  the  talk 
played  back  and  forth  over  ethics,  society,  and  literature, 
with  occasional  illustrations  drawn  from  Miss  Higgins's 
reception.  At  one  such  reference  he  had  a  sudden  recol- 
lection, leading  him  to  begin  with,  "Oh,  and  by  the  way — " 
going  on  to  ask  if  she  could  tell  him  the  name  of  a  lady  of 

46 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

remarkable  distinction  who  had  entered  Miss  Higgins's 
apartment  just  as  he  himself  had  come  away  from  it. 
Miss  Galloway  reflected,  mentioning  first  one  and  then 
another,  each  of  whom  he  set  aside  in  turn  as  already 
a  personal  acquaintance.  It  was  not  till  he  described  the 
costume — the  dark-brown  velvet,  the  dark-brown  plumes, 
shading,  as  he  remembered  them,  into  green  at  the  tips, 
with  a  green  lining  to  the  coat  that  fell  slightly  open  as  she 
moved — it  was  not  till  then  that  Miss  Galloway  nodded 
and  said,  in  a  low  voice: 

"Why,  that  was  Mrs.  Gildersleeve.  Don't  you  know 
her?  How  strange!  She's  just  come  back  from  abroad. 
She's — she's  sitting  next  to  you." 

Bainbridge  remembered  afterward  that  his  feeling  was 
like  that  of  the  spectator  of  a  play  at  the  moment  when  the 
outer  asbestos  curtain  begins  to  rise.  The  time  of  sitting 
and  doing  nothing  was  coming  to  an  end.  There  was  a 
sense  of  approaching  drama  in  the  mental  air.  In  the 
action  he  would  have  a  part,  if  only  that  of  an  impassioned 
looker-on. 

"She's  a  great  friend  of  Maggie's,"  Miss  Galloway  con- 
tinued to  whisper,  "and  I  believe  a  kind  of  cousin.  When 
I  have  an  opportunity  I'll  introduce  you." 

He  turned  slightly,  getting  a  glimpse  of  a  thin,  graceful 
arm  resting  lightly  on  the  table,  with  emeralds  and 
diamonds  in  the  bracelet  on  the  wrist,  and  emeralds  and 
diamonds  in  the  rings  on  the  fingers  of  a  slender  white 
hand.  The  dress  was  of  green  and  silver,  in  which  there 
were  shadows  and  shimmerings  as  in  a  woodland  summer 
lake,  while  more  emeralds  and  diamonds  starred  the  chain 
that  hung  round  the  slim  neck  and  descended  below  the 
decolletage.  The  dark  hair  was  worn  in  a  knot  of  the 
simplest  fashion,  but  a  comb  with  an  edge  of  diamonds 

47 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

rose  with  a  rim  like  a  tiara.  What  he  noticed  in  par- 
ticular was  the  decided  manner  in  which  she  turned  to 
Endsleigh  Jarrott,  as  if  anxious  to  ignore  himself. 

"But  she'll  have  to  speak  to  me  soon,"  he  reflected, 
when  Mary  Galloway  had  been  claimed  by  Reginald 
Pole,  who  sat  on  her  right.  With  the  fixed  rule  of  dinner- 
party etiquette  to  support  him.  he  knew  he  could  afford 
to  wait. 

But  she  took  no  notice  of  his  silence  and  isolation. 
All  round  the  brilliant  oval  of  flowers  and  lights,  of  porce- 
lain and  glass  and  silver,  about  which  twenty  persons  were 
seated,  there  was  eagerness  and  animation,  while  he  was 
excluded  from  intercourse  on  either  side.  Once  or  twice 
Mary  Galloway  endeavored  to  draw  him  into  the  con- 
versation between  Reggie  Pole  and  herself,  but  with 
little  success.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  preferred  to  sit 
waiting  and  dumb  while  his  eyes  sought  the  curve  of  the 
shoulder  so  persistently  turned  away,  and  the  line  which 
was  all  he  could  see  of  the  carefully  averted  cheek. 

But  his  reward  came  at  last.  With  a  sudden  lull  in  the 
talk  Endsleigh  Jarrott  spoke  to  the  lady  on  his  left,  so 
that  the  face  of  which  Bainbridge  had  not  yet  obtained 
a  glimpse  moved  slowly  into  profile.  It  was  a  pure  pro- 
file, high-bred  and  delicate,  with  the  hair  simply  parted 
in  the  middle,  waving  over  and  away  from  the  brows. 
Nevertheless,  she  continued  to  ignore  him  by  smiling 
across  the  table  and  exchanging  remarks  with  Harvey 
Coif  ax  and  Mary  Pole,  who  sat  opposite;  but  Miss 
Galloway  was  watching  for  her  chance. 

"Clorinda,  I  want  you  to  know  Mr.  Bainbridge.  He's 
a  great  friend  of  Maggie's  and  Leslie's." 

Slowly,  reluctantly,  and  under  compulsion  she  turned 
and  looked  at  him.  He  remembered  afterward  that  her 

48 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

expression  was  as  full  of  undecipherable  meanings  as  a 
page  of  a  book  printed  in  an  unknown  tongue. 

"So  we've  met  at  last,"  he  said,  easily. 

4 '  Yes,  at  last, ' '  she  echoed.  ' '  I  suppose  it  had  to  happen 
some  time." 

"The  wonder  is  that  it  wasn't  long  ago." 

Her  reply  was  faint.     "Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"Leslie  and  Maggie  speak  of  you  so  often,"  he  laughed, 
"that  I'd  begun  to  think  of  you  as  a  fictitious  character — 
a  sort  of  invisible  companion  such  as  children  talk  about." 

The  shadow  in  her  eyes  seemed  to  him  like  that  which 
comes  across  a  pool  when  a  cloud  passes  overhead.  "  I've 
been  a  good  deal  abroad."  She  added,  before  he  could 
respond  to  this,  "I  shouldn't  have  come  home  now  if 
war  hadn't  broken  out." 

"Do  you  like  it  so  much  over  there?" 

"It  isn't  altogether  a  matter  of  liking.  I've — I've 
other  things  to  think  of.  Besides,  I've  lived  so  much  in 
England  and  France  that  I'm  at  home  in  those  countries 
— and  in  Italy." 

"But  more  at  home  here?" 

She  evaded  this  question.  "If  I  had  been  able  to  do 
any  good  I  should  have  stayed  in  Paris.  I  wanted  to. 
It  was  dreadful  to  be  told  by  every  one  that  there  was 
nothing  I  could  do,  when  so  much  needed  to  be  done — 
and  to  know  they  were  right." 

"Why  were  they  right?" 

"For  the  reason  they  gave — that  there  was  nothing  I 
could  do.  I  couldn't  nurse  or  sew  or  undertake  anything 
that  some  one  else  wouldn't  have  done  better."  Her 
voice  became  both  eager  and  wistful,  as  she  went  on, 
"Tell  me,  how  do  people  set  about  doing  good?" 

He  was  so  absorbed  in  noting  that  quality  in  her  face 

49 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

which  was  either  experience  or  sorrow  that  he  would 
have  made  some  stupid  reply  if  the  subject  hadn't  been 
one  he  had  long  ago  thought  out.  "By  living,"  he 
answered,  mechanically,  as  he  helped  himself  to  some- 
thing, while  scarcely  taking  his  eyes  .from  hers.  "I  don't 
know  that  there  is  any  other  way." 

"I  don't  think  you  understand  me — " 

"  Oh  yes,  I  do.  But  people  don't  start  out  to  do  good  as 
they  might  to  take  singing-lessons  or  do  parlor  tricks. 
You  can't  say  I'll  do  good  from  ten  to  twelve  on  Tuesday 
and  from  two  to  four  on  Friday.  Fundamentally,  it  isn't 
a  question  of  how  we  act,  but  of  what  we  are." 

"Yes,  that's  like  what  you  said  before — " 

"Before?    When?"  he  asked,  quickly. 

She  recovered  herself  without  much  display  of  confu- 
sion. "I've  heard  you  preach — not  often — but  a  few 
times.  You  said  something  like  it  then." 

"Did  I?  Very  likely.  I  feel  rather  strongly  that  it's 
something  we  should  all  understand — and  that  very  few 
of  us  do." 

The  inclination  of  her  head  reminded  him  of  nothing 
so  much  as  that  of  a  lily  on  its  stalk.  "And  yet  it  seems 
to  me  that  if  you  pushed  that  theory  far  enough  you'd 
put  an  end  to  all  the  good  work  that's  being  done  in  the 
way  of  social  service — " 

He  laughed.  "Social  service,  as  it's  called,  doesn't 
often  amount  to  much — at  least  a  large  part  of  it.  It's 
restless  and  mechanical  and  not  thorough.  I'm  afraid 
it's  no  more  than  a  fad  of  the  day  that  will  go  out  of 
fashion  like  other  fads.  I've  nothing  against  it,  further 
than  that,  in  the  majority  of  cases,  it  ranks  with  the 
attempt  to  grow  plants  by  electric  light  instead  of  in  the 
sunshine." 

50 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

"Then  what  can  one  do  for  others — ?" 

"Nothing  that  one  hasn't  done  first  of  all  for  oneself — 
or  tried  to  do.  A  man  can't  love  another  as  himself  until 
he  has  first  of  all  learned  to  love  himself;  and  he  doesn't 
love  himself  until  he  has  begun  to  make  of  himself  the 
best  thing  possible." 

"In  that  case  very  few  people  would  love  themselves — ' 

"Very  few  people  do.  What  we  so  often  put  down  as 
self-love  is  self-hatred,  in  its  strict  analysis.  Rightly  to 
love  ourselves  is  a  beautiful  thing  which  leads  to  our 
rightly  loving  others.  My  point  is  that  we  can't  rightly 
love  others  till  we  know  how  rightly  to  love  ourselves." 

"So  that  you'd  say  that  the  reason  why  I'm  so  useless 
is  that—" 

"No;  wait,"  he  laughed.  "I  don't  say  you're  use- 
less—" 

"But  it's  what  I'm  telling  you." 

"And  I  don't  necessarily  agree.  It  doesn't  follow  that 
because  you  couldn't  do  war  work  you  can't  do  anything 
at  all." 

"Then  what  can  I  do^" 

"You  can  hardly  expect  me  to  tell  you  that  without 
knowing  you  better.  I'm  speaking  to  you  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life — " 

She  interrupted,  hastily:  "If  you  could  only  find  some- 
thing for  me  to  do — either  in  your  church  or  elsewhere!" 

"I've  never  seen  that  there  was  much  good  in  that  sort 
of  thing.  Believe  me,  the  only  enduring  and  useful  work 
is  what  one  does  for  oneself — in  its  extension  outward. 
When  you've  got  yourself  ready  you  won't  have  to  look 
far  to  find  an  opportunity;  but  you've  got  to  get  yourself 
ready  first.  Generally  speaking,  I  think,  we  turn  our- 
selves on  to  other  people's  needs  because  we  don't  want 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

to  tackle  our  own;  and  when  we're  driven  to  see  the 
futility  of  that  course  we  give  up  trying  to  do  anything." 

"And  yet  my  whole  object  is  not  to  think  of  myself 
at  all.  If  I  could  only  forget  myself — " 

"A  plant  might  as  well  try  to  forget  the  ground,  or  a 
bird  the  air.  Oneself  is  the  most  interesting  of  all  sub- 
jects— and  one  of  the  most  legitimate.  We  can  get  away 
from  everything  but  that;  and  since  we  can't  get  away 
from  it,  isn't  it  wise  to  make  the  best  and  the  most  of 
it?" 

He  was  sorry  that  just  at  this  minute  Endsleigh  Jar- 
rott's  good-natured  red  face  could  be  seen  peeping  round 
her  shoulder,  with  the  question  as  to  whether  Mrs. 
Gildersleeve  had  heard  what  had  happened  to  his  big 
machine  when  driven  by  a  drunken  chauffeur.  Bain- 
bridge  listened  to  part  of  this  adventure  in  the  hope  of 
recapturing  his  companion,  but  as  the  minutes  went  by 
without  any  such  result  he  found  himself  forced  back 
again  on  the  society  of  Miss  Galloway.  With  a  pang  he 
recorded  the  fact  that  his  feeling  at  the  change  was  like 
that  of  a  man  who  returns  to  the  humdrum  of  home  after 
a  strange  and  exciting  journey. 

During  the  rest  of  dinner  he  talked  little.  He  went  so 
far  as  to  drag  in  Reggie  Pole,  so  as  to  keep  Mary  Galloway 
engaged  while  he  should  be  free  to  follow  his  own  thoughts. 
He  wanted  to  register  his  impressions  of  the  last  ten  or 
fifteen  minutes,  to  engrave  them  on  his  memory  as 
ancient  historians  cut  their  inscriptions  on  rock. 

Without  making  the  admission  in  so  many  words  he 
felt  this  meeting  to  be  one  of  the  three  or  four  notable 
events  in  his  experience.  It  was  to  nothing  said  or  done 
that  this  conviction  was  due,  but  to  causes  over  and  above 
his  power  of  analysis.  With  no  one  else  whom  he  had 

52 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

ever  met  in  the  common  ways  of  social  life  had  he  gone  so 

directly  to  the  subjects  that  formed  his  chief  preoccupa- 
tion. She  had  a  need  to  discuss  them  similar  to  his  own. 
She  had  a  need  to  make  use  of  them,  too,  though  she  was 
without  a  knowledge  of  their  rules  and  principles.  While 
it  might  be  his  part  to  help  her  to  this  knowledge,  he  was 
already  aware  dimly  that  his  interest  in  her  was  essentially 
elementary  and  personal. 

Beyond  intermittent  remarks  on  trivial  things  he  had 
no  further  speech  with  her  till  the  ladies  rose.  Even  then 
it  was  not  he  who  spoke  to  her;  it  was  she  who  spoke  to 
him,  turning  as  he  drew  back  her  chair. 

"I've  been  so  glad  to  meet  you.  You've  given  me 
ideas  that  are  new  to  me;  but  I  don't  understand  them 
all.  Perhaps  some  day  we  can  have  another  talk."  She 
smiled,  too,  a  dim,  far-away  smile  that  was  less  on  the 
lips  than  in  her  unquiet  eyes.  As  if  with  an  after- 
thought, she  held  out  her  hand.  "I  do  hope  we  shall 
meet  again." 

Mary  Galloway  also  smiled,  but  he  was  so  absorbed 
in  watching  the  other  woman's  swan-like  movements  as 
she  joined  the  defile  of  ladies,  most  of  them  in  sweeping 
trains,  that  he  scarcely  noticed  it. 

In  the  smoking-room  he  tried  to  attach  himself  to 
Leslie  Palliser  in  order  to  talk  of  the  new  acquaintance 
he  had  been  privileged  to  make.  But  Leslie,  who  wasn't 
smoking  himself,  dodged  about  with  a  box  of  cigars  in  one 
hand  and  one  of  cigarettes  in  the  other  in  such  a  way  that 
it  was  impossible  to  nail  him  down. 

"Oh,  Clorinda  Gildersleeve,"  he  responded,  absently, 
when  Bainbridge  detained  him  a  minute  to  force  the  sub- 
ject. "Yes,  yes.  .  .  .  Saw  that  Maggie  had  put  you 
next  to  her.  .  .  .  Mighty  nice  woman.  .  .  .  Yes,  yes," 

53 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

"She  struck  me  as  more  than  that,"  Bainbridge  de- 
clared, in  the  hope  of  provoking  discussion. 

But  Leslie's  lack  of  interest  was  apparent  even  when  he 
said:  "Oh,  certainly.  .  .  .  Quite  remarkable  woman.  .  .  . 
Great  friend  of  ours.  .  .  .  Wonder  you'd  never  met  her 
before.  .  .  .  Lives  abroad  a  good  deal.  .  .  .  See?" 

In  the  end  Bainbridge  found  himself  wedged  in  between 
Endsleigh  Jarrott  and  Rodney  Wrenn,  listening  vaguely 
to  the  latter's  account  of  how  his  mare  had  been  stricken 
with  the  staggers,  while  he  watched  Leslie's  restless  move- 
ments about  the  room  and  wondered  what  ailed  him. 

In  many  ways  Leslie  Palliser  was  his  most  intimate 
friend,  certainly  his  most  intimate  friend  in  New  York. 
They  were  nearly  enough  of  an  age  to  have  known  each 
other  at  Harvard,  where  Leslie  had  been  a  senior  the 
year  when  Bainbridge  had  entered  as  freshman.  Indeed, 
it  had  been  Palliser's  respect  for  the  younger  man,  with 
whom  he  had  maintained  a  touch-and-go  acquaintance 
through  the  years  subsequent  to  the  university, that  had 
induced  Dr.  Galloway  to  look  toward  Boston  when  in 
need  of  an  assistant.  Leslie's  own  interest  in  St.  Mary 
Magdalen's,  where  he  was  now  a  member  of  the  vestry, 
had  begun  on  his  marriage  to  masterful  Maggie  Endsleigh, 
whose  family  had  long  been  ardent  in  the  parish. 

There  were  people  who  wondered  why  Maggie  had 
taken  him,  and  others  who  marveled  that  he  should  have 
married  her.  To  Bainbridge,  on  the  contrary,  they 
seemed  made  for  each  other,  if  for  no  other  reason  than 
their  differences.  Leslie  had  all  the  outer,  exquisite  finish 
his  wife  had  not,  with  a  dreamy,  elusive  quality  which 
might  have  been  the  mark  of  a  poet  rather  than  of  a  writer 
on  political  economy,  as  he  actually  was. 

If  there  was  a  fault  to  be  found  with  him  on  physical 

54 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

grounds,  it  was  that  he  was  too  perfect.  A  man  had  no 
business  to  be  so  handsome.  It  made  him  look,  so  Bain- 
bridge  chaffed  him,  like  a  figurine.  The  features  might 
have  been  modeled  in  porcelain;  in  the  sweep  and  up- 
ward curve  of  the  fair  mustache  one  rarely  saw  a  hair 
displaced;  in  the  droop  of  the  long  eyelashes  over  roman- 
tic gray  eyes  there  was  languor  and  poetry  and  passion, 
with  all  the  emotional  suggestions  that  set  women's 
hearts  a-beating  and  stir  men's  scorn.  Evening  dress 
fitted  him  as  bark  fits  its  stem,  and  his  cravat  seemed  to 
bloom  on  him  with  the  elegance  of  an  orchid.  When  he 
lectured  before  business  men's  clubs,  as  he  often  did,  and 
did  ably,  they  said  it  was  like  hearing  economic  statistics 
and  forecasts  of  new  routes  of  trade  from  the  lips  of  a 
Watteau  shepherd  or  a  jeune  premier. 

"Poor  Leslie!  Don't  you  think  his  good  looks  are  a 
burden  to  him?  He  tries  so  hard  to  be  taken  seriously, 
and  my  husband  says  that  he  has  just  as  much  chance  as 
a  canary  to  be  taken  for  a  crane.  What  do  you  say?" 

Mrs.  Endsleigh  Jarrott  asked  the  question,  as  she  asked 
all  questions,  as  if  it  were  a  burning  one,  and  Bainbridge 
the  only  authority  in  the  world  who  could  deal  with  it. 
They  were  seated  now  in  the  music-room,  where  Leslie 
was  playing  a  sonatina  by  Ravel,  and  had  paused  in  the 
interval  between  two  movements.  Bainbridge  was  sorry 
to  have  to  speak,  for  the  doing  so  broke  the  spell  of  strange 
dreams  into  which  the  strange  harmonies  had  thrown 
him.  Since  it  was  necessary  to  respond,  he  merely  said: 

"He  seems  to  bear  up  under  it." 

"Yes,  he  bears  up,"  the  lady  declared,  quickly,  "per- 
haps better  than  poor  Maggie  does." 

As  Leslie  ceased  speaking  to  Mary  Galloway,  who  was 

55 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

sitting  near  the  piano,  and  began  on  the  minuet,  it  was 
impossible  to  say  more;  but  Mrs.  Jarrott's  last  words 
gave  for  an  instant  a  new  direction  to  Bainbridge's 
thoughts.  In  reality  she  was  the  one  of  his  parishoners 
of  whom  he  was  somewhat  afraid.  He  had  sat  down  be- 
side her  not  from  choice,  but  because  on  the  entry  of  the 
men  she  had  beckoned  to  him  and  made  room  on  a  settee 
against  the  wall.  A  Juno  in  white  satin,  with  a  skin 
which  at  forty-five  was  still  as  rich  and  as  even  as  cream, 
she  had  a  manner  of  appealing  to  any  man  who  happened 
to  be  near  her  as  if  she  hung  on  his  opinion.  Bainbridge 
had  noticed  in  his  own  case  that  if  she  hung  on  his  opin- 
ion it  was  in  a  way  to  involve  it  with  hers,  and  often  to 
impart  a  sense  of  indorsing  some  subtle  calumny. 

But  with  the  renewal  of  the  strange  harmonies  he 
passed  again  into  his  strange  dreams,  especially  as  he  had 
Clorinda  Gildersleeve  directly  in  his  line  of  vision.  Seated 
in  a  low  chair  almost  in  the  center  of  the  room,  fanning 
herself  slowly,  her  train  shimmering  about  her  feet,  she 
stirred  his  imagination  to  the  new  questions,  to  the  new 
relation  of  men  and  women  to  each  other  and  to  the  world, 
of  which  this  new  music  was  in  some  sense  the  voice.  In 
it  emotion  was  intermingled  with  interrogation,  and  pas- 
sion was  restrained  by  sheer  consciousness  of  itself.  It 
was  as  far  from  the  triumphant  self-assurance  of  the 
nineteenth  century  as  from  the  melodic  sentiment  of  the 
eighteenth,  and  was  perhaps  nearer  to  life  than  either 
because  of  being  more  inarticulate,  more  troubled,  more 
tortured,  more  eager  for  the  basic  and  the  ultimate.  As 
Palliser  played  with  a  dreamy  abandonment  that  made 
itself  felt  in  the  way  his  slim  silhouette  leaned  back  from 
the  piano,  while  his  eyes  sought  the  cornice  of  the  room 
as  if  looking  into  far  spiritually  peopled  spaces,  the  tones 

56 


AS   PALLISER   PLAYED,   THE   TONES   WOVE  THEMSELVES  IN   WITH   BAIN- 

BRIDGE'S  HOPES  AND  WONDERINGS  AND  DESIRES 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

wove  themselves  in  with  Bainbridge's  hopes  and  wonder- 
ings  and  desires  and  became  their  speech. 

It  was  with  something  of  a  shock  that  in  the  next  inter- 
val he  heard  Mrs.  Jarrott  say,  eagerly:  "What  do  you 
think?  Wouldn't  you  simply  hate  it  if  you  were  in  Mag- 
gie's place?" 

He  looked  blank.    "Simply  hate  it?    Why?" 

"  Oh,  don't  tell  me  you  don't  know.  If  I  had  a  husband 
like  that,  with  every  third  woman  in  New  York  throwing 
herself  at  his  head,  my  hair  would  have  turned  gray 
long  ago." 

"But  you  haven't  a  husband  like  that,"  he  managed 
to  say,  as  with  a  pang  of  envy  he  watched  Harvey  Colfax 
saunter  up  to  Mrs.  Gildersleeve  for  an  exchange  of  joking 
remarks. 

"No,  thank  God!  And  I  sometimes  fancy  that  dear 
Maggie  wishes  she  could  say  the  same.  What  do  you 
think?" 

The  subject  was  new  to  Bainbridge,  and  slightly  dis- 
turbing. "I've  never  thought  anything  about  it — ' 

"Well,  I  would  if  I  were  you.  You  see  so  much  of 
them  both—" 

"That's  just  it;  and  I've  never  had  the  slightest  rea- 
son to  suspect — " 

"Oh,  men  never  do  suspect  till  the  thing  is  right  under 
their  noses,"  she  declared,  passionately.  "It  isn't  what 
one  sees,  it's  what  one  knows." 

"Do  you  know  anything  in  particular?" 

She  drew  herself  up  with  dramatic  haughtiness.  "Do 
you  think  I'd  betray  it  if  I  did?  I'm  not  talking  scandal 
— to  you  of  all  people.  I  only  want  to  be  reassured." 

"If  you  want  me  to  tell  you  that  Leslie  and  Maggie  are 
perfectly  happy — " 

5  57 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  they're  not  putting  up  a 
bluff." 

"They're  not  as  far  as  I  can  see.  I've  never  thought 
of  such  a  thing." 

She  sighed  and  smiled  as  if  playing  to  a  gallery,  rolling 
her  tiny,  brilliant  eyes.  "Then  I'm  so  relieved.  You 
know  if  any  one  would;  though  I  don't  suppose  that  any 
one  can  know  beyond  all  doubt.  What  do  you  think? 
Can  Maggie  expect  to  hold  a  man  like  that — ?" 

"Isn't  it  a  sufficient  answer  that  she  does?" 

She  seemed  to  tear  at  her  heart.  "Ah,  but  does  she? 
Tell  me  frankly,  now.  You'd  know  if  any  one  would,  and 
I  want  your  real  opinion.  If  you'd  seen  the  way  they 
were  married!  Dear  Maggie,  with  her  will  and  her  size 
and  her  money,  simply  swooped  down  on  him,  like  a 
typhoon  on  a  schooner,  and  swallowed  him  up.  Poor 
Leslie  was  wooed  and  married  and  a' — before  he  knew 
what  he  was  about.  He  hadn't  a  penny — as  I  suppose 
you  know.  Dear  Maggie  swept  him  off  his  feet;  but 
whether  she'll  keep  him  off  them,  now  that  he's  got  more 
of  a  position  in  the  world,  is  another  matter.  What  do 
you  say?" 

He  found  himself  relieved  of  the  necessity  of  answering 
this  question  by  the  fact  that  Leslie  again  stretched  out 
his  arms  to  the  keyboard,  and  with  head  thrown  back, 
and  that  air  of  searching  vague,  spiritual  places,  began 
on  the  last  movement.  But  the  strange  harmonies  now 
stirred  Bainbridge's  imagination  to  a  new  variety  of 
strange  thoughts.  Without  crediting  Mrs.  Jarrott's  in- 
sinuations, or  attaching  to  them  more  importance  than 
they  deserved,  he  found  it  difficult  to  dismiss  them. 
When,  therefore,  he  sat  alone  with  Leslie  and  Maggie, 
after  the  other  guests  had  gone,  he  looked  at  both  with 

58 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

a  wonder  for  which  the  word  suspicion  was  scarcely  too 
harsh  a  term. 

They  were  still  in  the  music-room,  where  Leslie  had 
returned  to  the  piano-seat,  after  escorting  the  last  of  the 
ladies  to  the  door.  Mrs.  Palliser  and  Bainbridge  had  al- 
ready dropped  into  two  of  the  comfortable  chairs  grouped 
carelessly  near  the  instrument. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Clorinda?"  she  had  asked,  at 
once. 

He  had  answered,  truthfully,  "I  thought  her  wonder- 
ful." 

"Wonderful  in  what  way?" 

"Oh,  in  every  way.     She's  so — so  amazing." 

It  was  then  that  Palliser  came  back  from  his  task  as 
host,  catching  the  last  words.  "Who's  amazing?"  He 
put  the  question  sharply  and  nervously,  and  yet  with  a 
metallic  laugh.  Slipping  into  the  piano-seat,  he  struck 
a  loud,  harsh  chord  or  two,  before  adding,  "Who's  Arthur 
raving  about  now?" 

"  Clorinda.    I  put  him  next  to  her." 

Palliser  sounded  out  a  few  more  chords,  breaking  into 
a  snatch  from  "Tristan". 

"I'm  not  raving  about  her,"  Bainbridge  protested; 
"but  I  found  her  unusual." 

"That's  why  I  wanted  you  to  know  her,"  Mrs.  Palliser 
explained.  "If  Mary  Galloway  won't  do — " 

Palliser  snatched  his  hands  from  the  keyboard  and 
turned  fiercely.  "For  God's  sake,  Maggie,  let  Arthur 
manage  his  own  affairs." 

"That's  what  I  want  him  to  do — with  a  little 
directing." 

"Can't  he  direct  them  himself?" 

Her  loud,  frank  laugh  was  the  more  boisterous  because 

59 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

of  her  irritation  in  being  called  to  account.     "Can  you, 
Arthur?    Do  you  want  me  to  drop  out?" 

Palliser's  hands  strayed  into  the  fire-music.  "What 
on  earth  can  he  say?  Do  you  expect  him  to  tell  you  to 
mind  your  own  business ?"  The  leaping,  crackling  quality 
of  the  phrases  he  seemed  to  whip  out  of  the  piano  ren- 
dered only  the  more  nervous  the  laugh  by  which  he  tried 
to  tone  down  the  annoyance  in  his  words. 

Warned  by  the  flash  in  his  hostess's  eye,  Bainbridge 
sprang  to  his  feet,  saying,  as  he  did  so :  "  Maggie  is  minding 
her  own  business  when  she's  minding  mine.  Aren't  you, 
Maggie?  It  will  be  a  pretty  cold  day  when  I  don't  turn 
to  you  as  a  constitutional  monarch  to  his  prime  minister." 
Going  forward,  he  leaned  on  the  piano,  where  Palliser  was 
now  running  into  something  else.  "What's  that  squiz- 
zling  thing  you're  playing,  Leslie?" 

Palliser  said  it  was  Debussy's  "Reflet  dans  1'eau." 

Bainbridge  looked  round  at  his  hostess,  but  shook  his 
head  sidewise  in  the  direction  of  his  friend.  "What's 
the  matter  with  him?  He's  been  like  that  all  the 
evening." 

Rising  also,  Mrs.  Palliser  went  forward.  Above  her 
evening  dress  of  pale-blue  silk  her  face  was  unusually 
florid,  but  the  impulse  to  anger  had  passed.  Standing 
slightly  behind  her  husband,  she  brushed  her  hand  lightly 
over  his  head.  "Poor  dear,"  she  said,  softly;  "it's 
Clorinda.  He  doesn't  like  her." 

"Doesn't  like  her?"  Bainbridge  demanded,  quickly. 
"Why  not?" 

She  had  got  back  her  noisy,  jolly  voice.  "Oh,  you 
must  ask  him  that.  I  don't  know."  She  bent  till  her 
red  cheek  touched  his  hair,  while  she  murmured,  tenderly, 
"AU  I  see  is  that  whenever  she's  roun4  he's  cross  an4 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

naughty,  and  wants  to  say  horrid  things  to  his  poor  old 
mumsey-wumsey  wife,  who  adores  him." 

While  his  right  hand  continued  to  find  the  keys  Pal- 
liser  raised  his  left,  and,  drawing  up  the  fingers  that  rested 
on  his  shoulder,  he  touched  them  with  his  lips.  And  yet 
it  seemed  to  Bainbridge  that  the  romantic  eyes  con- 
tinued to  search  the  dimness  about  the  cornice  of  the 
room  as  if  seeking  the  things  that  were  realities. 


CHAPTER  V 

"/^LORINDA  would  have  been  different  if  she  had 

*<^  ever  been  in  love.  She's  one  of  those  women  who 
have  always  been  able  to  pick  and  choose,  and  so  has 
got  herself  bewildered  by  the  embarras  de  richesses" 

Bainbridge's  heart  gave  a  great  bound.  It  was  some- 
thing to  know  that  no  one  else  had  ever  had  a  chance, 
even  though  there  would  be  none  for  him.  He  had 
reached  a  point  in  his  acquaintance  with  Clorinda  Gilder- 
sleeve  where  the  reckoning  of  chances  had  become  im- 
portant. 

It  was  after  the  Sunday-night  supper,  which  he  so  often 
took  with  Leslie  and  Maggie  Palliser.  Tired  and  con- 
tented with  his  day's  work,  he  was  ready  to  relax  and  be 
confidential.  Leslie  having  disappeared  from  the  richly 
somber,  dimly  lighted  library,  and  the  children  being 
tucked  into  bed,  the  minute  was  favorable  to  that  intimate 
talk  by  which  a  man  and  a  woman  who  have  an  unsenti- 
mental friendship  for  each  other  can  come  to  something 
that  resembles  the  free  intercommunion  of  spirits. 
Bainbridge  understood  Mrs.  Palliser  in  both  her  virtues 
and  her  limitations.  He  understood  her  as  honest  and 
kind,  even  when  wilful  and  imperious.  With  her  interest 
in  his  own  life  he  had  a  friendly  forbearance,  since  he 
knew  it  to  be  inspired  by  good  will. 

"How  do  you  know  she's  never  been  in  love?"  he  ven- 

62 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

tured  to  ask,  his  eyes  gazing  into  the  heart  of  the  splutter- 
ing fire. 

"Because  I  do.  I  know  all  about  her.  She  couldn't 
have  been  in  love  without  my  seeing  it." 

"She's  been  married." 

"That  didn't  count.  She  was  very  sweet  with  poor 
old  Martin  Gildersleeve;  but  he  was  nearly  sixty  when 
she  wasn't  twenty-one.  That  was  her  mother — old  Mrs. 
Rintoul.  Clorinda  was  one  of  those  dreamy  girls  who 
develop  late.  She  just  walked  through  the  marriage, 
as  you  might  say,  and  hardly  knew  where  she  was  till 
she  was  out  on  the  other  side.  Since  then — " 

"Yes,  since  then — what?" 

"Oh,  well,  she's  been  waking  up.  I  can't  describe  her 
in  any  other  way.  She's  trying  to  find  herself;  and  she's 
just  as  much  at  sixes  and  sevens  as  if  she  was  Galatea 
come  to  life  at  the  age  of  thirty-one." 

For  some  minutes  Bainbridge  puffed  at  his  cigar  in 
silence.  "She  always  seems  to  me,"  he  said  then,  "as 
if  she  was — as  if  she  was  hiding  something."  Startled 
by  his  own  words,  he  was  nevertheless  relieved  that 
Maggie  should  agree  with  him. 

"Yes,  she  does.  But  she  isn't.  She  has  nothing  to 
hide.  She  couldn't  have  without  my  seeing  it.  There's 
nothing  behind  that  air  of  mystery  but  herself." 

"Do  you  mean  that  she  herself  is  a  mystery?" 

"Only  in  the  sense  that  she's  a  woman  who  has  never 
had  a  woman's  chief  experience." 

"Because  she's  never  been  in  love?  But  then  she 
might  have  been,"  he  persisted,  for  the  sake  of  being 
contradicted  again,  "without  having  told  you  anything 
about  it." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  shouldn't  want  her  to  tell  me. 

63 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

I  should  have  known."  She  added,  with  seeming  irrele- 
vance, "I  don't  see  as  much  of  her  as  I  could  wish,  because 
Leslie  doesn't  like  her." 

He  raised  his  head  with  curiosity.  "So  you  said  the 
other  night,  but  I  can  hardly  imagine  it.  Why  on  earth 
shouldn't  he  like  her?" 

"Perhaps  because  she  doesn't  like  him.  I've  noticed 
that,  too.  They  used  to  be  very  good  friends;  but  now 
they  never  speak  to  each  other  unless  they  can't  help  it." 

Bainbridge  allowed  this  to  pass.  "She  was  in  church 
this  afternoon." 

"That's  another  thing  about  her — she's  never  had  any 
religion.  Neither  had  old  Mrs.  Rintoul;  neither  had 
Martin  Gildersleeve.  They've  all  been  pagans,  of  the 
respectable  American  brand  that's  the  most  godless  type 
of  all.  I  don't  believe  Clorinda  has  been  in  a  church 
twenty  times  in  her  life." 

"I've  seen  her  at  St.  Mary  Magdalen's  occasionally, 
on  a  Sunday  afternoon." 

"Oh,  that's  not  church;  that's  you.  She  goes  to  hear 
you  preach.  I  know  you  interest  her;  but  you're  a  long 
way  from  having  converted  her  yet." 

"The  question  of  conversion,"  he  answered,  rather 
hotly,  "hasn't  entered  my  mind,  and  I  doubt  if  it  has 
entered  hers.  I  haven't  met  her  a  dozen  times  in  all — 
and  then  more  or  less  by  chance." 

"Oh,  don't  defend  yourself.  There's  no  harm  in  your 
trying  to  convert  her,  and  there  may  be  some  good.  It 
will  be  like  taming  a  wild  bird;  but  even  that  has  been 
done." 

"And  yet  you  yourself — " 

"Brought  you  together— yes— for  the  reason  that  I 
want  you  to  have  the  privilege  of  choice.  I  don't  think 

64 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

you  should  rush  in  headlong  and  marry  Mary  Galloway 
without  seeing  that  there  are  other  types  of  women  in 
the  world." 

He  smiled.  "Have  I  shown  any  signs  of  rushing  in 
headlong — ?" 

"My  dear  man,  I  don't  wait  till  you  show  signs  of 
things.  My  part  is  to  anticipate.  If  I  hadn't  recom- 
mended Mary,  to  begin  with,  I  don't  believe  you'd  ever 
have  given  her  a  second  thought." 

"How  do  you  know  I  have,  as  it  is?" 

"By  my  common  sense.  Now  that  I've  pointed  her 
out,  you  can't  help  seeing  that  she's  ideally  the  wife  for 
you.  No  one  else  will  ever  be  as  good." 

"And  yet—" 

"Yes;  Clorinda  again.  But,  don't  you  see,  you  can 
never  get  the  true  value  of  anything  unless  you  have  a 
standard  of  comparison?  Clorinda  throws  Mary  into 
relief;  Mary  does  the  same  for  Clorinda.  If  you  marry 
the  one  she'll  be  happy  with  you;  if  you  marry  the 
other  you'll  be  happy  with  her.  There's  your  range 
of  choice,  and  it's  pretty  good  whichever  way  you 
take  it." 

"Yes,  but  with  a  big  if." 

"There's  an  if  in  everything  till  you  get  it  out.  That's 
what  remains  for  you  to  do." 

He  reflected  on  this.  "You  say  that  one  of  them 
would  be  happy  with  me.  Which  would  that  be?" 

"That's  something  for  you  to  find  out.  I  sha'n't  tell 
you.  If  I  did,  you're  the  sort  of  man  who'd  go  straight 
and  propose  to  her.  In  all  marriages  one  is  happier  than 
the  other,  and  that  you  can  take  from  me." 

As  Bainbridge  said  no  more,  silence  fell  till  they  began 
to  speak  of  the  meeting  of  a  board  of  directors  of  a  chari- 

65 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

table  institution  which  was  to  be  held  at  the  Palliser 
residence  on  a  day  in  the  week  that  had  just  begun. 
Into  this  desultory  discussion  Maggie  burst  with  the 
words,  which  she  seemed  to  utter  against  her  will: 

"What  would  you  say  to  a  woman  who  was  afraid  her 
husband  wasn't  in  love  with  her  any  more?" 

At  the  queer  note  in  her  voice  Bainbridge  looked  up 
from  his  contemplation  of  the  fire.  "I'd  tell  her  not 
to  be." 

"Not  to  be  what?" 

"Not  to  be  afraid.  Where  people  are  as  intimate  as 
husband  and  wife,  love  is  subject  to  all  kinds  of  sugges- 
tion." 

"But  if  she  can't  help  it?" 

"She  can  help  it — by  loving  enough  for  two." 

"She  might  love  enough  for  three,  or  for  thirty,  and 
not  get  back — " 

His  eyes  returned  to  the  fire.  He  spoke  slowly.  "The 
right  kind  of  love  is  the  most  sure  and  most  patient  force 
in  human  life.  Tell  your — your  friend  to  keep  on  loving, 
and  neither  to  probe  love  with  questions  nor  torment  her- 
self with  fears.  The  chances  are  that  she'll  work  out, 
or  work  back,  into  happiness  for  them  both." 

There  was  something  not  far  from  a  sob  in  her  big  voice 
as  she  said:  "You're  wonderful,  Arthur — for  a  man  who's 
never  been  in  love  himself." 

"Oh,  but  I  have  been,"  he  answered,  quietly.  "I've 
meant  to  tell  you  about  it  sometime.  I'll  do  it  now,  if 
you  like." 

It  was  a  simple  story,  which  he  told  simply.  He  had 
met  during  his  last  year  at  Harvard  a  girl  whom  he  had 
wanted  to  marry,  but  who  had  married  some  one  else. 
That  was  all.  She  had  refused  him  without  knowing  how 

66 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

hard  it  had  gone  with  him,  and  now  on  the  rare  occasions 
when  he  saw  her  they  were  still  good  friends. 

"So  that  it  didn't  work  out  into  happiness — "  she  be- 
gan to  object. 

"Oh  yes,  it  did — because  it  showed  me  the  direction 
in  which  my  happiness  was  to  lie.  It  suggested  its  own 
consolation;  and  the  consolation  led  me  into  the  Church. 
I'd  meant  to  be  a  lawyer  before  that." 

"I'm  very  glad  you  didn't  become  one,"  she  exclaimed, 
with  a  sort  of  weary  heartiness.  "There  are  plenty  of 
good  lawyers;  but  there  are  not  many  clergymen  like 
you.  I'll  remember  what  you've  said  about  not  probing 
love  with  questions  or  tormenting  oneself  with  fears. 
It's  pretty  hard  at  times — " 

He  broke  in  on  another  of  the  convulsive  gasps  that 
were  nearly  sobs  by  saying:  "Old  John  Keble  speaks  of 
love  as  '  the  flower  that  closes  up  for  fear ' ;  and  it  certainly 
won't  grow  if  we  keep  pulling  it  up  by  the  roots  to  see 
how  it's  getting  along.  It  '11  do  best  when  we  water  it 
with  trust  rather  than  with  suspicion,  and  keep  our  own 
love  as  true  and  sure  as  possible." 

As  Leslie  strolled  back  into  the  room  they  began  again, 
rather  consciously,  to  talk  of  the  meeting  to  be  held  on 
the  following  Wednesday  afternoon;  but  Bainbridge  was 
surprised,  as  he  said  good  night,  at  the  vigor  with  which 
Maggie's  strong  hand  clasped  his,  and  more  so  when 
she  said,  in  a  low,  husky  voice,  "God  bless  you,  Arthur!" 
at  a  moment  when  her  husband's  back  was  turned. 

But  he  walked  home  in  a  sort  of  waking  trance.  Clo- 
rinda  Gildersleeve  had  never  been  in  love  before!  The 
information  was  startling.  It  brought  her  nearer  to 
him;  it  made  her  almost  accessible;  it  removed  the 
haunting  dread  he  had  carried  away  from  each  meeting 

67 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

with  her  that  there  was  something  in  her  experience  that 
made  her  different  from  other  women — something  tragic, 
or  remorseful,  or  broken-hearted,  that  put  her  beyond 
his  reach.  She  was  beyond  his  reach  in  any  case;  he 
knew  that,  of  course!  A  woman  of  her  position  and  free- 
dom— a  woman  who  carried  with  her  an  air  of  charm 
and  wonderment  that  might  have  gone  with  some  legen- 
dary princess,  or  some  heroine  of  poetic  history — would 
never  become  the  wife  of  a  commonplace  working  clergy- 
man in  a  city  like  New  York.  But  it  didn't  do  away 
with  the  fact  that  he  loved  her,  or  make  his  love  one  shade 
less  a  glorious,  noble,  exhilarating  thing. 

He  had  never  said  to  himself  that  he  loved  her  before 
this  minute.  He  did  it  as  he  turned  out  of  Sixty-ninth 
Street  to  go  down  Fifth  Avenue,  and  caught  the  red- 
yellow  glow  thrown  up  by  the  city  and  resting  on  it  like 
an  aureole.  There  was  a  magic  in  this  splendor  akin  to 
what  he  felt  within.  It  was  luminous  and  mighty;  it 
was  beautifying,  transforming,  tremendous;  it  was  the 
radiance  that  turns  the  ugly  into  loveliness  and  broods 
and  soothes  and  uplifts.  It  spread  itself  above  spire  and 
tower  and  cube  like  incense  ascending,  like  strength  com- 
ing down.  "Every  good  gift,"  he  quoted  to  himself, 
"and  every  perfect  gift,  cometh  down  from  the  Father 
of  Lights."  In  the  very  quotation  he  reached  the  con- 
clusion that,  come  what  might,  and  no  matter  what 
should  be  the  result,  it  was  for  him  part  of  that  highest 
possible  which  he  had  always  made  his  aim,  that  he 
should  love  Clorinda  Gildersleeve. 

The  Father  of  Lights!  He  uttered  the  exclamation 
joyously  under  his  breath  as  he  descended  the  long  slope, 
with  lights  flaring  before  him,  above  him,  and  on  either 
side.  In  long  double  lines  they  trailed  off  into  what 

68 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

seemed  like  the  infinite  distance  of  the  lower  stretches  of 
the  city;  they  twinkled  through  the  trees  on  his  right; 
they  threw  out  broad  shafts  from  the  doorways  on  his 
left;  they  banked  themselves  in  stupendous  masses  and 
rows,  high  up  and  sky-like,  in  the  hotels  and  apartment- 
houses  south  of  the  Park.  It  was  not  like  a  wonderland; 
it  was  like  the  great  heart  of  the  world,  the  heart  of  the 
human  race,  the  heart  that  is  all  fire  and  passion  and  love, 
gazing  through  wide-open  eyes,  looking  out,  looking  on, 
while  he  entered  into  his  heritage.  The  Father  of  Lights ! 
Every  good  gift  and  every  perfect  gift  came  down,  could 
only  come  down,  from  Him;  so  that  Bainbridge  took  his 
love  as  a  boon. 

He  dreamed  of  it  that  night.  In  the  morning  he  looked 
over  his  cards  of  invitation  to  see  if  he  was  asked  to  any 
houses  where  he  might  possibly  meet  Mrs.  Gildersleeve. 
He  went  to  the  Cloudsleys',  where  a  daughter  was  being 
brought  out;  but  Clorinda  wasn't  there,  and  his  day 
grew  somber.  It  gave  him,  however,  a  feeling  that  his 
time  had  not  been  wholly  thrown  away  when  he  had  a 
talk  with  Miss  Higgins  over  a  matter  which  he  deemed 
of  some  importance. 

He  had  noticed  her  almost  from  the  moment  of  his 
entrance  into  the  great  Cloudsley  drawing-room,  chiefly 
because  of  the  way  in  which  she  verified  Maggie  Palliser's 
description  given  to  him  two  months  earlier.  She  was 
standing  in  a  corner,  gaunt  and  grimacing,  in  spite  of 
a  dashing,  fashionable  hat  and  a  trim,  tailor-made  suit 
of  gray.  His  eyes  sought  her  at  intervals  for  the  reason 
that  she  exercised  on  him  a  sort  of  fascination.  He  found 
her  at  once  pitiful  in  her  isolation  and  sinister  in  the 
kind  of  watchfulness  with  which  her  small,  cold,  smiling 
eyes  roamed  about  the  company.  Feeling  it  his  duty  to 

" 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

speak  to  her,  if  for  no  other  reason  than  that  she  was  a 
parishioner,  he  found  himself  greeted  with  the  over- 
emphasis of  welcome  which  his  former  meetings  with  her 
had  led  him  to  expect. 

And  yet  when  it  came  to  actual  conversation  he  was 
obliged  somewhat  to  revise  his  opinions  and  put  aside  his 
antipathies.  Indeed,  she  plunged  into  a  subject  that 
would  have  interested  any  clergyman,  and  Bainbridge 
more  than  most,  without  undue  loss  of  time. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Bainbridge,  I've  been  most  anxious  to  meet 
you.  I  want  to  consult  you  about  a  young  girl.  She's 
been  a  little  servant  of  mine —  Oh,  the  tiniest  kind  of 
maid — and  I  never  have  more  than  one — my  means  will 
not  permit  it!  But  Pansy  was  such  a  sweet  little  thing, 
and  devoted  to  me — simply  devoted — I  never  should 
have  suspected  her  of  moral  delinquency." 

With  this  as  a  preamble  his  interest  was  assured  in 
such  a  way  that  he  forgot  to  keep  more  than  a  desultory 
watch  for  Clorinda  Gildersleeve. 

The  story  was  of  the  kind  which  never  fails  to  be  ab- 
sorbing, even  though  he  had  heard  it  in  varying  forms 
ever  since  the  beginning  of  his  work.  Pansy  Wilde  was 
the  eldest  daughter  of  a  poor,  respectable  widow  who 
went  out  to  work  to  maintain  her  three  children.  The 
family  had  become  known  to  Miss  Higgins  when  the 
father,  the  janitor  of  the  apartment-house  in  which  she 
lived,  had  died.  After  giving  occasional  help  to  the 
mother,  Miss  Higgins  had  taken  Pansy,  at  the  age  of 
fifteen,  as  a  regular  member  of  her  establishment.  That 
had  been  two  years  earlier,  and  though  in  the  mean  time 
Pansy's  experiences  had  been  such  as  to  preclude  further 
waiting  on  her  patroness,  Miss  Higgins's  interest  in  the 
girl  bad  not  been  relaxed.  The  trouble  was  to  know  what 

79 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

to  do,  since  Pansy  had  shown  a  tendency  to  be  a  law 
unto  herself. 

"And  I  have  to  be  so  careful,  in  my  position,  living 
alone,"  Miss  Higgins  explained,  modestly.  Her  eyes  fell. 
"It  was — it  was  a  man,  you  understand — a  man — and 
then  poor  Pansy  had — well,  I  can  only  call  it  by  its  right 
name — Pansy  had — a  child.  She's  run  away  from  home 
— and  refuses  to  give  her  mother  the  name  of  the  child's 
father — and  I  don't  know  what  other  dreadful  things  may 
not  happen  to  her.  If  there  was  only  some  place  where 
the  poor  girl  could  be  put — and  taught  something — that's 
what  I  say — taught  something.  The  trouble  with  our 
lower  classes  is  that  they're  so  helpless — there  are  so  few 
things  that  they  can  do — even  if  they're  paid  for  it.  And 
poor  little  Pansy  now — she  wasn't  bad — not  naturally. 
She  was  just  young  and  pretty  and  dissatisfied — unsatis- 
fied, as  you  might  say — and  this  is  New  York — and  there 
you  are!  Oh,  Mr.  Bainbridge,  if  you  only  knew  of  some 
place  where  they'd  take  her — if  we  can  find  out  where 
she  is — and  if  she  isn't  too  far  gone  to  be  tided  over  this 
wilful  period  in  her  life.  ..." 

Bainbridge  found  his  respect  for  Miss  Higgins  in- 
creasing, and  his  suspicions,  in  as  far  as  they  were  sus- 
picions, melting  away.  It  was  precisely  the  sort  of  in- 
stance that  touched  him.  Moreover,  he  knew  of  just 
the  right  institution  for  Pansy  Wilde,  if  her  mother  would 
intrust  her  to  its  care.  Yes,  it  was  an  institution — the 
world  had  not  outlived  that  kind  of  mechanical  solicitude" 
yet;  but  it  was  an  old  foundation  for  New  York,  dating, 
that  was,  from  the  eighteenth  century,  and  very  well 
managed  and  endowed.  He  himself  was  a  member  of 
the  board  of  directors,  of  whom  there  was  to  be  a  meet- 
ing that  very  week.  In  the  mean  time  he  would  send 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

Miss  Merry,  the  deaconess  who  worked  on  such  cases  for 
St.  Mary  Magdalen's,  to  see  the  mother  and  consult 
with  her.  After  putting  down  the  address  in  his  note- 
book, he  took  leave  of  Miss  Higgins  with  a  warmth  that 
won  her  heart,  and  was  due  to  the  fact  that  he  had  pre- 
viously been  unjust  to  her. 

He  roamed  again  about  the  reception-rooms,  greeting 
an  acquaintance  here  and  there,  exchanging  a  word  or  two 
with  Mary  Galloway,  with  Maggie  Palliser,  with  Mrs. 
Endsleigh  Jarrott,  and  nodding  to  Leslie  from  a  distance. 
Not  till  it  became  evident  that  Clorinda  wouldn't  come 
did  he  take  his  departure. 

On  Tuesday,  there  being  no  such  event,  he  was  tempted 
to  call  on  her,  and  actually,  as  the  lamps  were  being  lit, 
strolled  by  her  house;  but  motives  of  discretion,  of  fear 
of  being  misinterpreted,  kept  him  from  going  in.  Again 
that  night  he  dreamed  of  her,  wildly  and  feverishly, 
making  up  his  mind  that  he  would  call  on  her  next  day, 
however  serious  the  mistake.  During  the  two  months 
he  had  known  her  she  had  so  pointedly  refrained  from 
asking  him  to  come  that  to  do  so  required  some  temerity, 
and  called  on  him  to  run  a  risk.  Very  well;  he  would 
run  it.  It  might  be — it  was  no  more  on  his  part  than  a 
mad  hope  which  there  was  nothing,  or  almost  nothing,  to 
justify — but  it  might  be  that  she  wanted  to  see  him  so 
much  that  she  dared  not  ask  him  to  come. 

But  on  Wednesday  morning  he  remembered  the  meet- 
ing at  Maggie  Palliser's,  which  would  take  place  at  just 
the  moment  when  he  might  expect  to  find  Clorinda  at 
home.  His  spirits  were  dashed  again,  much  as  those 
of  a  boy  whose  holiday  has  been  postponed.  On  Thurs- 
day his  engagements  would  render  it  impossible  for  him 
to  make  the  call,  and  this  would  also  be  the  case  on 

72 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

Friday.  The  week  might  go  by  without  his  seeing  her, 
and  so  might  another  week.  He  wondered  why  his 
points  of  contact  with  her  should  be  so  few,  when  he 
could  meet  almost  any  one  else  at  any  time  he  chose. 
Did  she  avoid  him?  He  could  have  brought  himself  to 
think  so,  had  it  not  been  for  a  certain  kind  of  pleasure — 
a  something  that  was  not  far  removed  from  joy — she 
betrayed  each  time  of  seeing  him. 

Gloomily  making  up  his  mind  to  his  disappointment, 
he  was  attempting  the  second  best  by  going  early  to  his 
meeting,  on  the  chance  of  a  half-hour  with  Maggie  Pal- 
liser,  which  might  be  spent  in  a  renewal  of  confidential 
talk.  Suddenly,  as  he  turned  from  Fifth  Avenue  into 
Sixty-ninth  Street,  he  felt  a  kind  of  inner  faintness.  At 
sight  of  a  tall,  distinguished  figure  descending  from  a 
motor  that  drew  up  at  Maggie's  door  he  stood  stock  still. 
Clorinda  spoke  to  the  chauffeur  and  dismissed  him.  The 
machine  was  already  moving  eastward  along  the  street 
and  she  was  ringing  at  the  door  before  Bainbridge  could 
take  the  few  necessary  steps  and  join  her. 

Not  having  noticed  his  approach,  she  turned  with  a 
quick,  startled  flush  at  sound  of  his  voice.  In  her  eyes, 
too,  there  was  a  misty  look  of  terror  which  cleared,  almost 
before  one  could  notice  it,  into  reassurance  and  welcome. 
It  was  her  customary  greeting.  He  could  not  remember 
that  he  had  ever  come  near  her  without  seeing  that  swift 

•eliminary  token  of  fear,  which  flashed  out  as  quickly 
as  it  flashed  in,  as  her  acknowledgment  of  his  presence. 
It  had  been  so  at  their  first  meeting,  and  continued  to 
be  so  still.  It  preceded  her  smile,  and  the  way  she  had 
of  holding  out  her  hand — a  way  that  was  at  once  timid 
and  frank,  lofty,  gracious,  and  condescending,  and  yet 
seemingly  half  afraid. 

6  73 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL 

"Are  you  going  in  to  see  Maggie?'* 

He  felt  that  her  words  were  merely  on  the  surface;  the 
realities  between  them  were  in  their  flushes,  in  their  eyes, 
in  obscure  emotions  for  which  no  language  had  as  yet 
been  coined.  He  replied,  mechanically,  "  I'm  going  to  the 
meeting." 

She  started  again.    "The  meeting?    What  meeting?" 

He  explained. 

"Then  I  shall  not  go  in."  She  said  so  to  the  footman 
who  answered  her  ring.  She  had  come  about  nothing — 
just  to  see  Mrs.  Palliser  and  have  a  cup  of  tea — but  she 
would  return  another  day. 

Bainbridge  endeavored  to  persuade  her;  they  had 
plenty  of  time;  the  meeting  would  not  begin  for  another 
half-hour;  he  himself  had  come  early. 

But  she  began  to  move  away  from  the  door.  "No,  no; 
I  shall  go  home — or  somewhere  else.  I  shall  walk  down 
the  Avenue.  It  will  do  me  good.  I  love  walking  on  these 
crisp  afternoons.  That's  why  I  sent  away  the  motor.  I 
meant  to  walk  in  any  case.  Do  give  my  love  to  Maggie, 
and  say  I  didn't  want  to  see  her  about  anything  im- 
portant. I  was  just  a  little — just  a  little  lonely,  and  I 
thought  I  should  like  a  chat." 

With  that  inclination  of  the  head  which  he  always  com- 
pared to  the  bend  of  a  lily  on  its  stalk  she  was  about  to 
leave  him  when  he  took  his  courage  in  both  hands.  ' '  Then 
mayn't  I  walk  a  little  with  you?  I'm  too  early  for  the 
meeting,  and  Maggie  will  only  be  bored  by  having  to 
entertain  me.  I'd  much  rather  go  down  the  Avenue  with 
you— if  you'll  only  let  me." 

"Why,  of  course— if  you  like." 

Again  he  knew  her  words  were  only  surface  words. 
What  she  really  meant  was  written  in  the  flashing,  un- 

74 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

decipherable  language  of  her  face.  That  was  something 
to  which  he  had  no  key.  Displeasure  was  not  in  it  so 
much  as  misgiving,  and  misgiving  not  so  much  as  a 
tremulous  acquiescence.  That  this  exquisite  being,  whom 
he  could  scarcely  approach  without  a  sense  of  reverence 
and  awe,  should  give  him  the  permission  for  which  he 
asked,  not  carelessly  or  indifferently,  but  with  something 
like  emotion  on  her  own  part,  swept  him  upward  into 
regions  such  as  he  had  never  before  dreamt  of. 

When  they  were  actually  side  by  side,  walking  toward 
Fifth  Avenue,  he  found  himself  with  nothing  to  say.  The 
situation  had  changed  so  rapidly  that  he  was  at  a  loss 
not  merely  for  language,  but  for  thought.  And  yet  out- 
ward conditions  were  so  photographed  on  his  faculties  as 
to  make  the  moment  memorable.  He  saw  everything, 
though  he  seemed  to  be  taking  note  of  nothing.  He  saw 
the  double  rush  of  motors,  swinging  from  and  into  the 
Avenue,  twisting  before  and  behind  one  another,  seemingly 
in  danger  of  collision,  but  veering  off  to  marvelous  escapes. 
He  saw  the  same  stream  in  the  distance,  up  and  down  Fifth 
Avenue  itself,  continuous,  continuous,  like  a  river  flowing 
two  ways  at  once,  and  giving  out  a  low,  monotonous 
rumble.  He  saw  the  flare  of  a  red  winter  sunset  at  the 
end  of  the  street,  over  the  trees  of  the  Park — the  descent 
of  darkness  through  the  air — the  occasional  lighting  of  a 
lamp.  He  saw  the  homing  of  sparrows  to  their  perches, 
and  heard  the  warbling  twitter  that  preceded  their  settling 
for  the  night.  He  saw  the  pedestrians  who  went  by — a 
butler,  smooth-shaven  and  smug,  a  lady  in  rich  furs,  a 
nurse-maid  with  three  children,  a  boy  with  a  bundle  of 
packages,  another  who  threw  the  evening  papers  into 
doorways,  two  smartly  dressed  girls  of  the  neighborhood, 
a  negro,  a  tramp.  All  these  impressions  registered  them- 

75 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

selves  swiftly  and  subconsciously  during  the  minutes- 
it  might  have  been  only  seconds,  though  the  time  seemed 
long — in  which  he  was  without  the  capacity  for  speech. 

His  mind  came  back  actively  to  Clorinda  last  of  all, 
for  it  was  only  last  of  all  that  he  dared  again  to  look  at 
her.  She  wore  the  same  brown  velvet,  with  the  same 
brown  plumes  shading  into  green,  as  on  the  day  when  she 
had  confronted  him  in  the  lift.  The  muff  was  of  sable, 
while  a  broad  sable  stole,  of  which  an  end  was  thrown  over 
her  left  shoulder,  emphasized  the  slender  distinction  of 
her  figure  as  she  walked.  As  she  walked,  too,  there  were 
glimpses  of  green,  where  the  lining  of  the  coat  was  flung 
outward. 

It  was  she  who  spoke  first,  doing  so  before  they  reached 
Fifth  Avenue.  "What  sort  of  a  meeting  are  you  going  to 
have?  Something  connected  with  your  church?" 

It  relieved  what  he  felt  as  the  almost  unbearable  tension 
in  his  heart  to  be  able  to  answer  a  commonplace  question 
in  a  commonplace  way.  It  was  nothing  connected  with 
the  church,  though  it  was  something  philanthropic.  The 
meeting  was  to  be  at  Maggie's  because  most  of  the  directors 
lived  in  that  neighborhood,  and  her  house  was  a  well- 
known  headquarters  of  good  works. 

"What  sort  of  good  works  is  this?" 

He  continued  to  explain.  In  the  late  seventeen  hun- 
dreds some  worthy  citizens  of  New  York  had  founded  a 
home  for  incorrigible  girls,  and  attached  to  it  a  piece  of 
property  at  that  time  of  small  value,  but  now  in  the  heart 
of  the  city.  Its  rental  was  sufficient  to  take  care  of  the 
thirty  girls,  to  which  number  at  any  one  time  they  were 
limited,  in  such  a  way  that  they  could  be  taught  to  earn 
a  living,  to  respect  themselves,  and  come  out  at  the  end 
of  two  or  three  years  as  useful  members  of  the  community. 

76 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

Some  of  them  went  back  to  an  irregular  life,  but  about 
eighty  per  cent,  remained  true  to  the  training  they  had 
received,  generally  marrying  and  settling  down. 

"Poor  things!  And  what  makes  them  go  wrong  in  the 
first  place?  Is  it  that  they" — she  seemed  to  find  some 
difficulty  in  formulating  her  question — "is  it  that  they 
fall  in  love?" 

"Not  generally — not  often.  Love,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
has  very  little  to  do  with  it.  They're  too  young,  as  a 
rule,  to  know  anything  about  it,  beyond  some  sort  of 
vague  romantic  dream." 

She  walked  on,  without  looking  at  him.  "Then  what 
is  it?" 

"Bad  homes — bad  parents — bad  examples — loneliness 
often — poverty  always — " 

"So  that  it  isn't  really  their  fault." 

"Not  primarily.  It  is  their  fault  in  the  second  place, 
since  you  can't  take  responsibility  away  from  any  human 
individual;  and  yet — " 

"And  yet  you  can't  blame  them  much,  can  you?" 

"I  don't  believe  we  think  about  the  blame.  We're 
too  busy  finding  the  cure  to  dwell  on  the  way  the  patients 
have  caught  the  disease." 

"And  what  cure  do  you  find?" 

' '  One  cure  is  work.  It  often  happens  that  girls  go  wrong 
from  sheer  lack  of  anything  to  do  in  which  they  can  take 
an  interest.  Once  you've  given  them  intelligent  occupa- 
tion, it's  astonishing  what  a  change  comes  over  some  of 
them." 

The  warmth  with  which  she  spoke  took  him  by  surprise. 
"  I  don't  see  that  it's  astonishing.  If  you  only  knew  what 
it  is  not  to  have  intelligent  occupation — " 

He  was  moved  to  ask,  "Do  you?" 

77 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

She  shot  him  a  sidewise  glance  in  answering.  "I've 
never  had  it  and  I  hardly  expect  to  have  it — now." 

"Why  do  you  emphasize  the  now?" 

"Because  if  I  ever  had  any  such  hope  you've  taken  it 
away." 

"I?"  The  knowledge  that  he  counted  for  anything 
in  her  life  brought  an  element  of  joy  into  his  amazement. 

"I  had  thought  I  might  do  something,"  she  declared, 
in  a  tone  of  reproach,  "till  you  told  me  I  couldn't." 

"Told  you  you  couldn't?    When?" 

"That  evening  at  dinner,  at  Maggie's.  You  said  that 
till  one  had  done  impossible  things  for  oneself  one  couldn't 
do  anything  for  any  one  else." 

"Did  I  say  impossible  things?" 

"They're  impossible  to  me." 

"How  do  you  know,  if  you  haven't  tried  them?" 

"I  have  tried  them.  It's  the  bringing  every  thought 
into  captivity — that's  the  expression,  isn't  it?" 

"Did  I  ever  tell  you  to  do  that?" 

In  some  confusion  she  stopped  short  before  a  flower- 
shop  near  the  corner  of  Fifty-ninth  Street.  "How  beau- 
tiful!" she  said,  rather  tremblingly.  "Things  are  already 
brightening  up  for  Christmas.  It  seems  terrible  for  us  to 
be  enjoying  ourselves,  doesn't  it?  when  there's  so  much 
misery  in  the  trenches."  The  digression  enabled  her  to 
regain  the  necessary  tone,  as  they  walked  on  again.  "If 
you  haven't  said  it  in  so  many  words,  it's  what  I've  in- 
ferred. I've  heard  you  preach  a  good  many  times — ' 

He  accepted  the  explanation.  "Even  so,  it's  not  any- 
thing that  can  be  accomplished  easily  or  all  at  once.  It's 
a  life-work." 

^  Having  to  run  counter  to  the  up-current  of  the  city's 
life,  they  were  separated  for  a  minute  or  two,  which  gave 

78 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

her  time  to  think  over  these  words.  When  they  had 
again  come  together  she  turned  on  him  suddenly  with  a 
fierceness  which  he  had  only  suspected  as  an  element  in 
her  character.  "How  should  you  feel  if  the  most  serious 
thing  you  ever  had  to  think  about  was  dress?" 

He  laughed.  "I  suppose  I  should  feel  like  a  man  who 
has  neither  legs  nor  arms;  but  that  can't  be  your  situa- 
tion." 

"It  is— almost." 

"Oh,  but  only — almost.  That  lets  you  out,  doesn't 
it?" 

"No,  because — "  She  hesitated  long,  pausing  again 
before  a  convenient  bookshop  in  a  way  that  made  him 
also  pause.  He  noticed  that,  for  the  first  time  since  he 
had  known  her,  her  eyes,  which  were  darker  than  hazel 
and  deep  with  a  baffling  profundity,  looked  straight  into 
his  own.  He  knew  she  wanted  to  tell  him  something,  to 
make  a  confession;  but  he  knew,  too,  that  she  would  make 
it  only  in  suggestion,  leaving  him  to  draw  his  own  con- 
clusions. "No,"  she  repeated,  "because  the  only  serious 
thing  I  have  to  think  about  I  don't  think  about  any  more. 
...  I  shut  my  mind  to  it.  ...  It's  no  use.  .  .  .  I've 
thought  about  it  so  much  .  .  .  and  so  helplessly  .  .  . 
and  always  round  and  round  in  a  circle  .  .  .  that  now  .  .  . 
At  least,"  she  went  on,  in  another  tone,  "it  would  be 
quite  useless  .  .  .  my  thinking  about  it  ...  if  it  weren't 
for  ...  some  of  the  things  you  said." 

Before  he  could  group  these  broken  phrases  together, 
or  bring  out  of  them  anything  like  coherent  sense,  she  had 
hastened  on  again  in  such  a  way  that  the  crowd  divided 
them  once  more. 

Though  there  were  but  a  few  paces  between  them  he 
made  no  effort  to  rejoin  her  till  he  had  pondered  on 

79 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

what  she  had  said.  The  inference  was  plain.  It  was  what 
he  had  suspected.  Maggie  Palliser  was  wrong  in  saying 
Clorinda  had  never  been  in  love.  She  had  been  in  love — 
and  unhappily.  That  was  what  he  had  seen  in  her  from 
the  first;  it  was  the  something  heartbroken,  the  secret, 
which  was  not  quite  a  secret,  she  had  been  trying  to 
conceal.  And  yet  the  truth  had  scarcely  come  home  to 
him  before  he  found  himself  tingling  in  every  nerve  at  the 
-  discovery  that  she  wanted  him  to  know  it. 
'..  He  had  allowed  her  to  keep  a  step  or  two  in  advance  of 
him,  while  a  flying  wedge  of  pedestrians  intervened  be- 
tween them.  She  walked  so  swiftly  as  to  give  the  im- 
pression of  a  person  in  flight.  She  might  have  been  trying 
to  run  away  from  him,  or  from  something  in  her  thought. 
When  he  was  again  beside  her,  she  spoke  rapidly  and 
without  looking  round. 

"I  wonder  if  you  have  any  idea  as  to  what  I  mean?" 

"I  can  guess,"  he  returned,  quietly.  He  felt  himself 
privileged  to  add,  "I  rather  think  I  saw  it  from  the  first." 

She  seemed  to  quicken  her  pace.  "I  thought  you  did. 
From  that  very  night  at  Maggie's  I  was  sure  you  could 
see  right  through  me."  Before  he  could  take  these 
words  up  in  any  way,  she  said,  breathlessly:  "I'm  glad. 
It's  the  more  kind  of  you  to  treat  me  as  you  have.  I — I 
shall  never  forget  it." 

He  allowed  himself  to  say,  as  if  speaking  casually, 
"It's  been  the  most  wonderful  thing  in  my  life  to  know 
you  at  all." 

She  gave  no  indication  of  having  heard  these  words, 
going  on  to  say,  with  the  rapidity  of  subdued  excitement: 
"  But  I've  lived  through  it  now.  .  .  .  I've  lived  some  of  it 
down  ...  not  aU  of  it  ...  some  of  it  only  .  .  .  and 
if  you  could  go  on  helping  me  .  .  ." 

80 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

"If  I've  helped  you  in  any  way — " 

"You've  helped  me  in  more  ways  than  you  can  know 
anything  about;  and  now  if  I  could  only  do  something 
.  .  .  get  out  of  myself  .  .  ." 

"Well,  you  shall." 

"These  poor  girls,  for  example.  .  .  .  Don't  you  see? 
...  If  I  could  do  anything  for  them  .  .  .  however 
little  .  .  ." 

He  thought  it  tactful  to  follow  the  lead  with  which  she 
glided  away  from  her  own  deeper  experience  to  something 
in  the  nature  of  a  consequence.  "How  should  you  like 
to  come  and  see  them?  You  might  be  interested." 

"Oh,  if  I  might!" 

"It  isn't  that  they're  on  show,  or  anything  of  that 
kind."  He  reflected  for  a  few  seconds  before  making  his 
next  suggestion.  "I  go  to  talk  to  them  every  few  weeks. 
Perhaps  you  might  care  to  come  then.  Maggie  is  some- 
times there,  or  one  or  another  of  the  women  directors; 
and  they  have  a  sort  of  tea  with  the  girls  afterward,  for 
the  purpose  of  getting  to  know  them.  They'll  probably 
be  afraid  of  you  at  first." 

"Not  half  as  much  as  I  shall  be  afraid  of  them." 

But  you'll  get  used  to  one  another;   and  then  you'll 
see  how  slight  is  the  difference  between  them  and  oneself." 

"Oh,  but  I  see  that  now,"  she  exclaimed,  with  what 
was  almost  fervor.  "I'm  ready — ready  to  learn  from 
them  .  .  ." 

One  does  learn  from  them — at  least  I  do.  They're 
very  touching,  in  their  way,  with  an  innocence  that 
persists  in  spite  of  everything.  You  see  they're  all  under 
twenty;  and  just  at  present  the  oldest  is  not  more  than 
nineteen." 

So  they  passed  from  the  personal  topic  to  the  more 

81 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

general,  and  after  crossing  Forty -second  Street  they 
scarcely  spoke  at  all.  At  Thirty-ninth  Street  they  turned 
toward  Madison  Avenue,  stopping  before  one  of  the 
smaller  houses  on  the  slope  of  Murray  Hill.  As  it  was 
nearly  dark  by  this  time,  the  outer  vestibule,  into  which 
they  could  see  through  a  glass  door  protected  by  a  wrought- 
iron  grille,  was  lighted  up.  It  was  a  white  vestibule  that 
seemed  the  more  spotless  because  of  the  strip  of  red 
carpet  running  up  the  steps,  and  the  two  pointed  box- 
trees  in  tubs  in  the  corners.  Bainbridge  had  often,  as 
he  went  by,  looked  at  it  enviously.  It  seemed  a  fitting 
threshold  to  mark  the  home  of  one  so  exquisite,  so  simple, 
so  fastidious,  so  pure,  so  much  the  soul  in  search  of  the 
higher  things  while  remaining  a  woman  of  the  world.  At 
the  same  time  it  was  like  a  barrier  which  he  had  still 
to  pass.  Others  went  in  and  out  over  it  for  whom  it  had 
no  meaning.  For  him  it  had  a  meaning;  perhaps  it  had 
a  meaning,  too,  for  her.  He  guessed  this  when  in  bidding 
him  good-by  she  said:  "I  can't  ask  you  to  come  in,  be- 
cause you'll  be  late  for  your  meeting.  I'm  afraid  you'll 
be  late  as  it  is — "  and  yet  refrained  from  asking  him  to 
come  on  any  subsequent  occasion. 

"But  it  can't  be  because  she  doesn't  want  me,"  he 
declared  to  himself,  as  he  called  a  taxi  to  take  him  back 
to  Sixty-ninth  Street.  He  added,  with  that  thumping 
of  the  heart  which  gave  him  again  a  feeling  of  inner 
faintness,  "It's  because  she  does." 


CHAPTER  VI 

EARLY  on  an  afternoon  in  the  week  before  Christmas 
Bainbridge  was  returning  from  a  business  visit  to 
Philadelphia.  In  the  parlor-car  he  was  almost  alone, 
except  for  two  or  three  people  who  sat  with  their  backs  to 
him  at  the  distant  end.  Tired,  idle,  and  happy  in  his 
dreams,  he  felt  at  liberty  to  be  undignified.  He  lounged, 
therefore,  in  his  arm-chair,  and  occasionally  closed  his 
eyes.  To  make  himself  more  comfortable,  he  pulled 
round  the  revolving-chair  in  front  of  him,  in  order  to  rest  a 
foot  on  it  while  he  tried  to  doze.  On  the  seat  there  lay  a 
paper  which  a  passenger  had  left  behind  him  on  getting 
out  at  Trenton. 

It  was  a  journal  which  Bainbridge  recognized  at  once 
for  the  reason  that  it  might  almost  be  called  a  national 
institution.  It  could  be  purchased  anywhere  between 
Miami  and  Seattle  or  Bangor  and  Los  Angeles.  In  all 
parts  of  Europe  where  Americans  congregate  it  was  also 
to  be  found,  bringing  the  exile  into  intimate  personal 
touch  with  his  compatriots  at  home. 

Once  a  week  it  appeared  in  Chicago,  and  was  of  a 
moral  and  elevating  character  sustained  with  a  great  big 
manly  heartiness.  Its  aim  was  briefly  indicated  by  the 
motto  on  its  title-page,  "  The  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but 
the  truth"  to  which  it  adhered  as  strictly  as,  in  a  world 
where  truth  is  such  an  elusive  quality,  could  have  been 

83 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

expected.  Its  style  was  bluff  and  trenchant,  and  at  the 
same  time  confidential.  It  could  be  as  light  as  a  feather 
in  its  persiflage,  and  as  fierce  as  Jeremiah  in  its  castigations. 
It  had  a  way,  too,  of  taking  the  reader  to  its  heart  and 
giving  him  that  sense  of  self-importance  which  the 
fledgling  gets  when  the  man-about-town  sits  beside  him 
in  the  smoking-room  and  tells  him  piquant  anecdotes. 
By  talking  to  you  familiarly  of  other  people's  sins  it 
brought  your  own  virtues  into  prominence,  while  assuring 
you  that  within  its  columns  you  were — sin  or  no  sin! — 
in  very  select  company.  No  organ  could  have  been  more 
characteristic  of  a  democratic  country,  since  by  its  means 
the  veriest  outsider  could  feel,  as  the  English  like  to  put  it, 
"in  the  know."  Being  in  the  know  meant  being  in  the 
secrets  of  wealthy  or  distinguished  persons,  whose  hearts, 
for  a  multiplicity  of  reasons,  might  be  otherwise  shut 
against  you.  The  same  useful  gift  that  enabled  the 
prophet  to  tell  the  King  of  Israel  what  the  King  of  Syria 
whispered  in  his  bedchamber  made  it  possible  for  this 
particular  periodical  to  keep  a  passionately  interested 
public  informed  of  flirtations,  escapades,  and  scandals 
quite  as  soon  as  the  principals  themselves  knew  they  were 
involved  in  them.  The  interval  between  the  crime  and 
the  chronicle  was  scarcely  longer  than  that  between  the 
lightning  and  the  thunder,  if  it  was  as  long.  Indeed, 
there  had  been  instances  when  the  chronicle  had  come 
before  the  crime,  making  the  prophetic  analogy  even  more 
exact. 

It  was  not  often  that  Bainbridge  scanned  these  para- 
graphs, but  he  did  it  now,  not  from  interest  in  their  con- 
tents so  much  as  from  ennui  and  a  vague  amusement.  He 
was  still  turning  the  pages  listlessly,  and  with  an  inward 
smile,  when  his  attention  was  attracted  by  a  name.  It 

84 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

was  a  name  which  at  first  merely  danced  before  him, 
without  context  or  coherence  with  the  lines  in  which  it 
occurred.  He  required  a  few  seconds  to  get  his  eyes 
focused  and  his  faculties  into  play,  so  as  to  read  with 
comprehension. 

I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  all  is  not  well  between  the  Leslie 
Pallisers,  which  is  no  more  than  those  of  us  who  have  known  Mag- 
gie for  most  of  her  five-and-thirty  years  have  been  expecting. 
That  she  shouldn't  always  be  able  to  tie  the  decorative  Leslie 
to  her  apron-strings  any  one  with  the  social  instinct  might  have 
been  able  to  foretell.  I  saw  them  at  the  Cloudsleys',  on  the 
day  when  poor  plain  little  Edith  made  her  bow  to  the  world, 
and  a  husband  more  bored  or  a  wife  more  suspicious  it  has  never 
been  my  lot  to  contemplate.  It  is  a  pity,  I  think,  that  married 
people  should  air  their  jealousies  in  public;  but  then  Maggie 
always  had  a  temper.  Now,  too,  that  a  certain  interesting, 
dark-eyed  woman  is  again  in  New  York  we  may  look  for  dramatic 
surprises. 

Bainbridge  read  this  composition,  first  with  amazement 
and  then  with  incredulity.  His  chief  misgiving  was  as  to 
the  amount  of  circulation  such  gossip  would  receive.  That 
it  would  be  wide  he  had  no  doubt.  That  among  Leslie's 
and  Maggie's  extensive  acquaintance  there  would  be  few 
who  would  not  believe  them  to  be  at  variance  before  the 
week  was  out  was  all  too  probable.  That  Maggie,  were 
she  to  hear  of  it,  would  be  bitterly  angry  with  Leslie, 
whether  he  was  to  blame  or  not,  was  the  result  he  held 
least  in  dread.  What  he  feared  was  her  own  humiliation. 
Whether  true  or  false,  these  statements  would  wound  her  to 
the  quick.  Proud  and  high-handed,  but  quiveringly  sen- 
sitive where  Leslie  was  concerned,  she  would  not  get  over 
the  effect  for  years.  She  might  never  get  over  it  at  all. 

Before  nightfall  he  had  an  opportunity  to  test  his 
apprehensions.  As  it  was  his  duty  to  report  to  Doctor 

8S 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

Galloway  what  had  happened  in  Philadelphia/he  called  at 
the  rectory  immediately  on  returning  to  New  York.  The 
rector  was  not  at  home;  but  Mrs.  and  Miss  Galloway  were 
in  the  drawing-room  knitting  for  the  Red  Cross.  Gifts 
of  St.  Mary  Magdalen's  being  lavished  on  the  church 
rather  than  on  the  rectory,  the  room  was  worn  without 
being  shabby,  while  there  had  been  little  or  no  attempt 
to  harmonize  colors  and  styles  according  to  the  modern 
taste  in  furnishing.  It  was  cheerful,  however,  with  a 
fire  on  the  hearth,  and  a  soft,  bright  spot  thrown  out  by 
an  electric  lamp  through  a  vellum  shade  painted  in 
fruits  and  flowers. 

It  was  not  difficult  for  Bainbridge  to  introduce  the  sub- 
ject on  his  mind,  to  which  Mrs.  Galloway  responded  in  a 
deep  contralto  that  was  almost  bass. 

"I  don't  allow  such  stuff  to  lie  about.  My  own  copy 
never  leaves  my  room,  through  fear  of  its  falling  into  the 
hands  of  the  servants." 

A  dimpling,  dumpling,  little  bundle  of  a  woman,  her 
former  prettiness  was  scarcely  marred  by  an  eyelid  that 
drooped  lower  than  its  fellow  and  a  mole  with  a  tuft 
of  hair  at  the  corner  of  the  upper  lip. 

"Oh,  as  to  the  servants,"  Miss  Galloway  replied, 
"they've  generally  a  copy  of  their  own.  I  often  see  it 
when  I  go  to  the  kitchen." 

Bainbridge  felt  his  fears  confirmed.  "I  was  afraid  it 
was  rather  widely  read." 

"  It's  a  sin  and  a  shame,"  came  with  mock  severity  from 
Mrs.  Galloway.  "People  ought  to  boycott  the  thing. 
Then  they'd  stop  printing  it." 

"Why  don't  you  do  that  yourself,  mother?" 

"What  would  be  the  use  of  my  doing  it  when  other 
people  wouldn't?" 

86 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"You'd  be  one  reader  the  less." 

"I  shouldn't  care  anything  about  that."  She  turned 
toward  Bainbridge  with  a  coquettish  wayward  toss  of  the 
head.  She  was  accustomed  to  being  the  center  of  the 
room.  "What  are  you  going  to  do  with  a  woman  like 
me?  I  simply  won't  and  can't  and  sha'n't  reform.  I'm 
a  stone  around  my  husband's  neck,  and  a  shocking  example 
to  my  daughter.  But  what  can  any  one  do?" 

Mary  Galloway  smiled  gently  and  distantly,  her  eyes 
on  her  needles.  "They  can  only  allow  you  to  be  a 
privileged  character,  mother  dear."  She  leaned  forward 
to  examine  her  parent's  work.  "Oh,  what  are  you 
doing?  You're  not  purling  already?" 

Mrs.  Galloway  laughed  with  an  irresponsibility  that 
seemed  to  come  from  tipsiness  because  of  the  droop  of 
her  eyelid.  "I  got  tired  of  that  everlasting  knitting  stitch. 
I  thought  I'd  do  something  different." 

The  daughter  took  the  work  into  her  own  hands.  "It 
will  all  have  to  come  out,  right  down  to  there." 

During  the  task  of  readjustment  to  which  Mrs.  Gallo- 
way submitted  her  work  without  protest,  chuckling  like  a 
naughty  child,  Bainbridge  had  time  to  notice  the  change 
that  had  come  over  the  girl  during  the  past  month  or  two. 
She  had  grown  thin;  she  looked  tired.  Some  of  her 
pretty  color  had  wasted  away,  and  her  eyes,  in  which  there 
had  always  been  a  sparkle  of  fun,  seemed  to  have  grown 
larger  and  softer  and  vaguer.  The  dash  of  disdain  had 
gone  from  her  manner,  its  place  being  taken  by  a  listless- 
ness  against  which  she  strove  by  spurts  and  sallies  that 
subsided  suddenly,  as  if  she  forgot  to  keep  them  up. 
Since  she  was  unaware  of  the  thoughts  he  had  entertained 
toward  her  for  a  day  or  two,  and  of  the  way  in  which 
Clorinda  Gildersleeve  had  dispelled  them,  it  comforted 

87 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

him  to  think  that  the  change  could  have  nothing  to  do 
with  him. 

As  she  unraveled  her  mother's  work  he  reverted  to  the 
topic  of  the  Pallisers.  "Of  course  no  one  who  knows 
Leslie  and  Maggie  will  take  such  rubbish  seriously — ' 

"I  shall,"  Mrs.  Galloway  interrupted,  gaily.  "I  be- 
lieve it.  I'm  prepared  to  accept  the  worst." 

"It's  no  more  than  has  been  said  about  a  good  many 
other  people,"  Miss  Galloway  observed. 

"And  who  can  possibly  be  the  contributors?  They 
must  be  people  with  some  means  of  knowing  what  goes 
on." 

As  he  spoke  his  glance  encountered  Miss  Galloway's; 
and  it  was  perhaps  because  each  read  the  mind  of  the 
other  that  they  looked  hastily  away.  Mrs.  Galloway 
laughed  with  chuckling  gaiety. 

"How  do  you  know  I'm  not  one?  I'd  write  for  them 
if  they'd  pay  me  well  enough — and  give  them  their 
money's  worth." 

"If  Maggie  stays  at  home,"  Mary  Galloway  remarked, 
her  eyes  on  her  knitting,  "she's  sure  to  hear  of  it.  She 
mayn't  read  the  thing  herself — every  one  isn't  so  keen 
on  the  higher  literature  as  mother — but  some  kind  friend 
will  let  it  out.  If  Leslie  could  only  be  persuaded  to  take 
her  away  over  Christmas!  I  know  she's  out  of  sorts, 
and  rather  dreading  the  big  family  party  they'll  have  to 
go  to  at  somebody's  house.  Leslie  could  be  tired,  too, 
and  make  it  an  excuse  for  spending  the  holiday  at  Aiken 
or  White  Sulphur  Springs.  I'd  drop  him  the  hint  if  I 
knew  him  well  enough." 

On  reflection  it  seemed  a  wise  step  to  take.  Returning 
to  his  house,  therefore,  he  telephoned  to  Palliser,  asking 
him  to  look  in  on  him  during  the  evening,  should  he  find 

88 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

himself  without  an  engagement.  Summoning  Wedlock, 
he  commissioned  him  to  go  out  and  buy  the  current  issue 
of  the  journal  which  had  caused  so  much  friendly  per- 
turbation. 

Wedlock  shuffled,  proceeding  to  hem  and  haw.  The 
typical  decent  English  valet,  getting  on  toward  middle 
life,  he  hesitated  at  spanning  the  gulf  that  parted  master 
from  man.  "If  I  might  make  so  bold,  sir,"  he  began 
at  last,  "not  meaning  any  offense,  or  to  take  a  liberty 
that  you  might  be  against  my  taking,  in  a  manner 
of  speaking,  sir,  but  if  I  don't  offend  you,  or  go  out 
of  my  place — " 

"You  won't  go  out  of  your  place  or  offend  me,  either, 
Wedlock.  What  is  it?" 

"Well,  sir,  me  and  Mrs.  Wedlock,  not  wishing  to  be 
more  intimate  with  our  betters  than  we've  a  right  to  be — 
but  seeing  we're  in  service,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  and 
liking  to  know  what's  what,  and  how  our  betters  carries 
on—" 

"Do  you  mean  that  you've  got  a  copy  in  the  house?" 

"Well,  sir,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  yes — that  is,  if  it 
wouldn't  be  a  liberty  or  take  me  out  of  my  place — " 

"Even  Wedlock  reads  it,"  Bainbridge  thought.  Aloud 
he  said:  "Then  lend  it  to  me.  It  will  save  your  going 
out." 

"Have  you  seen  this?" 

Palliser  answered,  scornfully:  "Why,  no.  Never  read 
the  rag.  But  it's  queer;  you're  the  second  man  who  has 
asked  me  that  to-day." 

They  were  sitting  in  Bainbridge's  study,  in  the  same 
relative  positions  and  chairs  which  he  and  Malcolm  Grant 
had  occupied  nearly  two  years  before. 

7  89 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"Then  you'd  better  look  at  it." 

Palliser,  who  had  lighted  a  cigarette,  paused,  with  the 
match  still  burning  between  his  fingers.  "There's 
nothing  in  it  about  me,  is  there?" 

Bainbridge  passed  the  journal  to  his  friend,  the  para- 
graph marked  in  pencil.  "You  can  see  for  yourself." 

Putting  his  cigarette  to  his  lips  at  intervals,  while  he 
blew  out  light  puffs  of  smoke,  Palliser  scanned  the  lines 
rapidly.  Bainbridge  watched  the  cloud  descend  on  the 
romantic  face,  though  the  sudden  exclamation  at  the 
end  took  him  by  surprise. 

"My  God!  Who  could  have  got  hold  of  that?" 
Dashing  the  paper  to  his  knee,  he  crumpled  it  in  his  hand. 
But  the  expression  changed  instantly,  becoming  guarded 
and  alert.  "I  mean,"  he  began  to  stammer,  "what  are 
they — what  are  they  trying  to  put  over  on  us?" 

The  revelation  Bainbridge  had  received  was  so  much 
more  than  he  was  expecting  that  for  a  minute  or  two  he 
was  at  a  loss  as  to  what  to  say.  "You  don't  mean  to  tell 
me,"  he  asked,  finding  it  difficult  to  put  the  question 
into  words,  "that  there's — there's  truth  in  it?" 

Palliser  answered,  absently:  "No.no;  that  is —  Well, 
perhaps  if  I  said—"  He  broke  off  impatiently.  "Oh, 
hang  it  all,  Arthur!  This  is  New  York.  What  do  you 
suppose?" 

Bainbridge  took  his  time.  "Well,  I  hadn't  supposed 
that,"  he  said,  simply,  when  he  could  articulate  the  words. 

Palliser's  thoughts  again  went  wandering.  "No,  no; 
you  wouldn't."  He  burst  out  eagerly:  "If  I  can  only 
keep  Maggie  from  hearing  about  it!  I  don't  mind  for 
myself— the  gossip  and  that  kind  of  rot— but  Maggie's 
another  matter." 

"Quite  so;  it's  why  I  asked  you  to  come  round  this 

90 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

evening.  Maggie's  the  type  of  woman  not  to  distinguish 
clearly  between  the  true  and  the  false,  the  minute  the 
thing  has  been  said."  He  added,  softly,  "I  took  it  for 
granted  that  it  was  false." 

Palliser  seized  the  opportunity  to  deny  what  he  could. 
"  Some  of  it  is  false — see  ?  There's  nothing  wrong  between 
Maggie  and  me.  I've  taken  care  of  that.  Maggie's 
not  jealous — at  least,  not  more  than  any  other  married 
woman — just  by  fits  and  starts — but  nothing  serious  or 
permanent.  That's  pure  invention." 

From  sheer  eagerness  Bainbridge  leaned  forward,  an 
arm  resting  across  his  knee.  "I  suppose  we  may  as  well 
talk  frankly,  Leslie,  now  that  we're  on  the  subject.  What- 
ever has  happened,  or  is  still  to  happen,  I  can't  be  any- 
thing but  your  friend." 

"I  know  that;  but" —  he  rose  and  began  to  pace  rest- 
lessly about  the  room — "but  how  can  I  be  frank?  I'm 
not — not  the  only  one  involved." 

Bainbridge's  eyes  followed  him.  "You  mean  that 
there  is  this — this  other  woman?" 

Palliser  came  to  a  standstill  in  the  shadow  of  the  book- 
cases on  the  other  side  of  the  room.  He  answered  with 
deliberation  and  unusual  distinctness.  "There  was; 
there  isn't  now."  He  continued,  in  a  more  broken  tone: 
"She's  an — an — an  actress.  You  wouldn't  know  her 
name,  so  it's  no  use  to  tell  you  anything  about  her." 

"I'm  not  asking  you  anything  about  her.  I  don't 
want  to  know.  For  the  minute  Maggie  is  our  only 
consideration.  Everything  else  can  wait  till  you  want 
to  take  it  up — if  you  ever  do." 

"I  never  shall,"  Palliser  declared,  huskily,  "because 
it's  all  over.  Been  over  and  done  with  for  three  years  and 
more.  Thought  it  was  not  only  dead  and  buried,  but 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

that  nobody  knew  it  had  ever  been  alive.  How  the  devil 
this  confounded  rag  can  have  got  hold  of  it — ' 

"When  once  you  choose  to  do  that  sort  of  thing,  Leslie, 
you  never  know  who — " 

Palliser  stepped  forward  from  the  obscurity  in  which 
he  had  taken  refuge.  "I  didn't  choose  to  4do  that  sort 
of  thing,"  he  interrupted,  fiercely.  "I  never  thought  of 
it.  Neither  did  she.  It — it  flared  up." 

"Does  anything  ever  flare  up  unless  there's  something 
out  of  which  to  make  a  fire?" 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  Bainbridge's  mouth  be- 
fore it  came  to  him  that  he  had  used  them  on  some 
similar  occasion.  He  had  used  them,  too,  in  response  to 
some  such  remark  as  this.  When?  Where?  The  recol- 
lection eluded  him.  It  was  like  a  memory  that  is  not  a 
memory — that  may  be  a  hint  of  a  previous  existence  or 
no  more  than  something  imagined  or  dreamed.  For  the 
instant  he  had  no  time  to  give  to  it,  since  Palliser  went  on : 

"No,  I  dare  say  nothing  does  flare  up  unless  there's 
something  out  of  which  to  make  a  fire,  but  at  present 
that's  not  the  point.  The  fire  is  out — to  all  intents  and 
purposes.  What  I've  got  to  provide  against  is  Maggie's 
seeing  there  are  ashes." 

Bainbridge  perceived  his  opportunity.  ' '  Why  shouldn't 
you  take  her  away — over  Christmas?" 

"What  good  would  that  do?  Wherever  she  went  she'd 
see  this  cursed  thing  in  the  bookstalls  for  another  week." 

"You  could  keep  her  from  that,  and  by  the  time  you 
came  back  you'd  find  that  no  one  had  paid  it  any  attention 
unless  they  keep  at  you.  If  they  do,  and  Maggie  dis- 
covers there  has  been  an  actress  in  your  life—" 

Palliser  came  forward,  resolutely,  throwing  his  half- 
smoked  cigarette  into  the  fire.  "I  think  I'll  be  off.  But 

92 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

before  I  go,  Arthur,  I've  a  favor  to  ask  you.  Don't — " 
He  seemed  hung  up  for  words,  or  for  the  exact  thought  he 
was  trying  to  express.  "Don't,"  he  began  again,  "don't 
say  anything  to  me  about — about  the — the  actress — till  I 
give  you  the  tip.  See?  It's  all  over,  you  understand — 
but  I  can't  talk  of  it — not  even  with  you — not  yet  awhile, 
at  any  rate." 

Bainbridge  rose,  laying  a  hand  on  his  friend's  shoulder. 
"All  right,  Leslie.  I  shall  never  speak  of  it  unless  you  do; 
but  I  sha'n't  keep  it  a  secret  from  you  that  I'm  thinking  a 
lot." 

They  were  in  the  hall,  where  Palliser,  who  had  thrown 
a  handsome  fur  coat  over  his  dinner-jacket,  stood  thought- 
ful and  somber  and  more  than  ever  ornamental.  Sud- 
denly he  looked  up.  "Arthur,"  he  exclaimed,  sharply, 
"don't  get  married!" 

Bainbridge  was  taken  by  surprise.  "What  makes  you 
think  I've  any  idea  of  doing  it?" 

Palliser  moved  toward  the  door.  "Never  mind  that; 
but — but  don't.  You're  well  enough  off  as  you  are." 
He  had  turned  the  knob  and  was  passing  out  when  he 
added:  "Or  if  you  do — marry  Mary  Galloway.  She 
was  cut  out  for  you." 

Before  he  could  make  any  retort  to  this  Bainbridge 
found  himself  alone.  Going  back  to  his  study,  he  fell  to 
meditating.  He  did  so,  leaning  against  the  mantel- 
piece, with  his  back  to  the  dying  fire.  He  was  reckoning 
up  the.  time.  It  was  all  over,  Leslie  had  said,  three  years 
before.  That  meant  it  had  been  going  on  during  the 
first  few  months  in  which  he  himself  had  been  at  St. 
Mary  Magdalen's,  at  the  very  time  when  Leslie  had  been 
showing  so  much  interest  in  all  that  affected  the  parish 
life.  He  could  do  that — he  could  seem  to  live  happily 

93 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

with  Maggie — he  could  seem  to  be  at  peace  with  his 
conscience — and  still  be  keeping  up  an  affair  that  had 
plainly  cut  deeply  into  his  heart,  with  some  one  on  the 
stage.  Bainbridge  wondered  how  men  who  were  not 
depraved — as  Leslie  certainly  was  not — could  combine 
blends  of  conduct  so  incongruous.  If  there  was  any 
palliation  of  the  guilt  it  lay  in  the  fact  that  it  had  not 
been  a  matter  of  premeditation.  It  had  flared  up. 

He  was  thrown  back  on  that  elusive,  tantalizing  memory. 
These  words  had  certainly  been  spoken  to  him  once 
before,  and  in  circumstances  that  bore  a  resemblance  to 
those  of  this  evening.  But  when — and  where — and  by 
whom? 

And  yet  as  he  searched  his  recollections  of  the  past 
four  years  his  mind  revolted  against  the  task.  It  was 
like  going  back  into  a  jungle,  stifling,  smothering,  mias- 
matic. So  much  had  been  told  him!  So  many  hearts 
had  been  poured  into  his!  Had  he  not  had  wholesome 
counter-agents  within  himself — had  he  not  been  able  to 
dismiss  and  forget — he  must  have  been  sickened,  poisoned, 
by  the  inflow  of  nauseating  confidence. 

In  the  end  he  gave  the  effort  up.  He  did  so  not  from 
lack  of  interest  in  the  matter,  but  because  he  dropped 
again  into  his  arm-chair  to  indulge  in  happy  dreams. 
They  were  dreams  of  Clorinda  Gildersleeve,  whom  on  the 
next  day,  at  her  own  invitation,  he  was  to  see  for  the  first 
time  at  home. 


CHAPTER  VII 

TO  pass  the  white  vestibule,  with  its  strip  of  red  carpet 
and  its  two  pointed  box-trees,  was  to  Bainbridge  as 
the  fulfilment  of  a  ceremonial  rite.  The  man  who  ad- 
mitted him  was  in  keeping  with  the  admirable  neatness 
of  the  entry,  correct,  cadaverous,  lantern-jawed,  needing 
only  the  touch  of  powder  in  the  hair  to  make  the  visitor 
feel  he  was  in  London.  Within,  all  was  fresh,  immaculate, 
and  spacious,  while  the  footfall  was  soundless  on  soft  red 
carpet  like  the  strip  outside,  adding  warmth  to  what  was 
already  restful.  One  blue-green  bit  of  Flemish  tapestry 
and  one  full-length  portrait  that  might  have  been  a 
Gainsborough  relieved  the  white  paneling  of  a  hall  from 
which  a  library  at  the  front  of  the  house  and  a  dining-room 
at  the  back  were  dimly  revealed.  On  the  first  low  landing 
of  the  stairs  was  an  ebony  Chinese  pedestal  on  which 
stood  a  celadon  Chinese  jar. 

Bainbridge  knew  finer  houses  in  New  York,  but  none  that 
gave  this  impression  of  spotlessness  and  simplicity.  He 
was  not  in  the  habit  of  observing  such  details,  and  did  it 
now  mainly  because  the  setting  so  beautifully  suited  the 
exquisite  soul  who  dwelt  within  it.  It  was  with  a  pal- 
pitating sense  of  reverence  that  he  followed  the  footman 
to  the  drawing-room  up-stairs. 

As  he  had  looked  forward  to  seeing  Clorinda  alone,  he 
was  disappointed,  on  reaching  the  upper  floor,  to  hear 

95 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

voices.  Part  of  the  white-and-gold  expanse  of  the 
drawing-room  being  visible  from  the  stairway  itself,  he 
could  see  Mary  Galloway  moving  about,  inspecting  ob- 
jects that  lay  on  tables  and  hung  over  the  backs  of  chairs. 
He  could  hear  her  say,  in  her  silvery  staccato:  "Oh,  but 
they're  much  too  good.  I  don't  believe  they'll  let  them 
accept  them." 

Clorinda  replied,  tenderly:  "The  poor  things!  It's 
Christmas.  I  want  them  to  have  something  nice.  They're 
girls,  after  all." 

With  the  words  she  moved  into  view,  wearing  a  poetic, 
trailing,  filmy  thing  of  the  black-blue  of  sapphires  under 
artificial  light.  A  gold  thread  running  through  it  here 
and  there  gleamed  in  the  softened  electricity.  One  bright 
bar  of  orange — or  was  it  fire? — struck  across  the  dusky 
pallor  of  the  skin,  below  the  opening  at  the  throat.  Her 
greeting  was  simple  and  unforced,  and,  for  the  first  time, 
lacked  the  preliminary  look  of  fear. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  I  hoped  you'd  come.  Mary  is  here. 
We're  looking  at  the  presents  I've  got  for  the  poor  girls  at 
that  home  of  which  you  were  telling  me.  I  hope  you 
won't  say  they're  too  good  for  them — like  Mary." 

With  such  grace  as  he  could  summon  up  Bainbridge 
was  obliged  to  accommodate  himself  to  conditions  la- 
mentably different  from  those  to  which  he  had  been  look- 
ing forward.  He,  too,  inspected  blouses,  sweaters, 
handkerchiefs,  gloves,  doing  his  best  to  seem  enthusiastic, 
but  secretly  dissatisfied.  Obscurely  he  felt  as  if  a  trick 
had  been  played  upon  him — had  he  been  able  to  attribute 
any  such  act  to  the  woman  he  loved — and  he  was  not  free 
from  the  impression  that  Mary  Galloway's  discomfort  was 
similar  to  his  own.  She  was  undoubtedly  disturbed  by  his 
coming,  and  perhaps  displeased.  Before  they  had  made 

9$ 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

the  round  of  the  presents  she  began  adjusting  her  veil 
and  putting  on  her  gloves. 

"Oh,  but  you're  not  going,"  Clorinda  protested.  "You 
said  you'd  have  tea." 

Miss  Galloway  consulted  the  watch  on  her  wrist. 
"I'm — I'm  afraid  I  sha'n't  have  time,  after  all.  Mother 
will  be  expecting  me  home,  and — " 

Moving  in  her  gentle,  stately  way  to  the  bell,  Clorinda 
put  her  finger  on  the  button.  "Then  we'll  have  it  at 
once.  I  shall  certainly  not  let  you  go  on  this  cold  day 
without  it." 

So  the  minutes  to  which  Bainbridge  had  been  looking 
forward  as  the  beginning  of  a  new  epoch  in  his  life  threat- 
ened to  become  like  other  minutes.  They  were,  in  fact, 
a  little  below  the  level  of  other  minutes,  since,  in  the 
polite  conversation  that  ensued,  he  was  reduced  to  the 
proportions  of  the  tea-drinking  curate  of  the  stage.  He 
foresaw,  too,  that  when  Mary  Galloway  rose  courtesy 
would  compel  him  to  do  the  same,  and  that,  as  their  ways 
lay  together,  he  should  walk  up  Fifth  Avenue  in  her 
company.  He  would  have  had  no  objection  to  her  com- 
pany had  it  not  been  for  the  odd  feeling  of  embarrassment 
which  had  crept  unexplainably  between  them.  Though 
for  this  he  couldn't  blame  himself,  he  was  not  free  from 
that  unreasonable  sense  of  guilt  which  a  woman's  silent 
bearing  can  impose  upon  a  man  who  has  nothing 
whatever  on  his  conscience.  It  was  almost  as  if  she 
knew,  what  she  could  not  possibly  have  known,  that 
he  might  have  been  in  love  with  her  by  now,  if  Clorinda 
hadn't  intervened. 

What  Clorinda  felt  he  had  no  means  of  guessing,  beyond 
the  fact  that  she  seemed  resolved  to  keep  to  friendly 
superficialities.  He  wondered  if  she  was  beginning  to 

97 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

divine  what  was  in  his  heart  and  was  growing  afraid  of 
it.  Was  she  backing  out?  Was  she  running  away? 
Was  she  hiding  behind  Mary  Galloway?  Was  she  saying 
to  him  tacitly,  as  Leslie  had  said  on  the  previous  night: 
"Marry  Mary  Galloway.  SJte  was  cut  out  for  you.  I 
was  not."  Of  course  she  was  not!  As  to  that  he  had 
never  been  under  an  illusion.  That  she  should  stoop  to 
a  humdrum  parson  like  himself  was  scarcely  among 
possibilities.  If  he  cherished  a  hope  for  it — a  hope  that 
was  scarcely  a  hope — it  was  only  because  of  that  agitation 
on  her  part,  whenever  he  was  near,  which  a  woman  be- 
trays only  when  a  man  speaks  to  the  emotional  within 
her.  Had  he  not  at  one  minute  caught  her  eyes  in 
what  became  on  his  side  a  long,  demanding,  imperious 
look  to  which  she  returned  some  cryptic,  untranslatable 
response,  he  would  have  made  up  his  mind  that  she 
wanted  to  get  rid  of  him. 

With  the  vital  thoughts  elsewhere  they  were  talking  of 
books  and  plays  and  a  recent  engagement  when  a  peal  at 
the  door-bell  rang  startlingly  through  the  house.  Before 
the  door  could  be  opened  the  peal  was  followed  by  an- 
other, more  violent  and  prolonged.  Mary  Galloway 
broke  off  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  to  look  at  Clorinda. 
Clorinda  looked  at  Bainbridge  and  grew  pale.  It  was  as 
if  she  had  been  expecting  something  which  might  now 
have  come  to  pass.  "What  can  that  be?"  she  murmured; 
but  the  question  was  so  faint  as  to  do  no  more  than  pass 
her  lips. 

They  listened  while  a  woman's  voice  exchanged  a  few 
words  with  the  footman,  after  which  came  a  rushing 
swish  of  skirts  on  the  stairway.  "It's  Maggie,"  Mary 
Galloway  said,  under  her  breath.  "No  one  else  would 
come  in  like  that." 

98 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"Then  something  must  be  the  matter,"  Bainbridge 
added,  rising  to  go  into  the  hall. 

Clorinda  also  rose,  standing  pale,  calm,  spirit-like, 
behind  the  tea-table  with  its  masses  of  silver. 

Before  Bainbridge  could  reach  the  hall  Maggie  burst 
upon  the  threshold,  coming  abruptly  to  a  halt.  "You've 
been  talking  about  me,"  she  declared,  in  a  voice  loud  with 
accusation. 

Behind  her  veil  her  face  was  red,  while  her  hat  had  been 
knocked  awry,  probably  on  too  hastily  getting  into  her 
motor  or  out  of  it.  Her  eyes  were  brilliant  and  wild,  like 
those  of  a  woman  under  the  influence  of  stimulants  or 
drugs.  Mary  Galloway,  who  alone  remained  seated, 
answered  her. 

"No,  we  haven't  been,  Maggie  dear.  We've  been  talk- 
ing of  the  new  play  at  the  Gramercy.  Do  come  and  sit 
down  and  let  Clorinda  give  you  a  cup  of  tea." 

As  Bainbridge  drew  up  a  chair  for  her,  Maggie  ad- 
vanced a  step  or  two  into  the  room,  but  again  came  to  a 
standstill.  "What  is  it  you  all  know,"  she  demanded, 
"that  I  don't?  What  is  every  one  talking  about  that  I 
haven't  heard  of?" 

"What  have  you  heard,  Maggie?"  Bainbridge  inquired, 
still  holding  the  chair  for  her. 

"I  haven't  heard  anything,"  Maggie  cried,  angrily — 
"not  really.  I've  been  to  see  Claribel  Jarrott — " 

"If  I  were  you,"  Bainbridge  broke  in,  "I  shouldn't  be 
distressed  by  anything  Mrs.  Endsleigh  Jarrott  says  about 
any  one.  She's  the  type  of  woman  who  is  never  happy 
unless  she's  making  mischief." 

"But  she  knows  something,"  Mrs.  Palliser  insisted. 
"She  spoke  as  if  you  all  knew  it — as  if  it  was  the  talk  of 
the  town." 

99 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"If  Mrs.  Jarrott  knows  anything  she  should  tell  you 
plainly,"  Bainbridge  said,  soothingly,  "or  leave  the  sub- 
ject alone." 

Maggie  turned  round  to  him  fiercely.  "I  know  what 
Claribel  Jarrott  is.  You  don't  have  to  tell  me.  But 
that  doesn't  affect  the  point,  if  anything's  being  kept  from 
me  about  Leslie  that  I  ought  to  know — " 

"Nothing  is  being  kept  from  you  that  you  ought  to 
know — "  Bainbridge  began  again. 

"Well,  then,  that  I  might  know — that  you  know — that 
everybody  knows." 

"Maggie  dear,"  Mary  Galloway  said,  gently,  "no  one 
knows  anything,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  that  you  don't 
know  yourself.  If  you're  going  to  work  yourself  up  over 
every  idle  tale — " 

"Leslie  has  no  business  to  have  idle  tales  told  about 
him.  No,  I  can't  sit  down,"  she  cried,  impatiently,  as 
Bainbridge  pushed  the  chair  forward.  "I  don't  want  to. 
You're  all  against  me.  You  know  things  you  won't  tell 
me—" 

"But  we  don't,  Maggie  darling." 

"Then  why  should  Claribel  take  me  by  the  hand — and 
cry  over  me — and  say  that  if  I  had  to  leave  Leslie  her 
house  would  be  open  to  me — ?" 

"Partly  because  she's  a  foolish  and  dangerous  woman," 
Bainbridge  explained,  "and  partly  because  of  something 
else  which  I'm  going  to  tell  you  in  the  hope  that  you'll 
take  it  with  the  wholesome  common  sense  which  is  one 
of  your  characteristics." 

She  surveyed  him  haughtily.  "I'll  take  it  as  I  have  to 
take  it,  Arthur.  All  I  ask  is  to  know." 

He  stepped  forward  so  as  to  be  nearer  her.  Clorinda 
moved  away  from  the  tea-table  toward  the  chimney- 

100 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL1 

piece,  where  she  stood  with  face  partially  averted  from  the 
group  as  she  gazed  into  the  fire.  She  had  said  nothing 
since  Maggie  had  entered  the  room. 

"What  Mrs.  Jarrott  was  referring  to  was  a  very  silly 
paragraph  in  a  paper  you'd  only  smile  over.  I  saw  it 
myself — two  days  ago — by  accident — on  the  train  coming 
from  Philadelphia.  It  isn't  worth  your  paying  a  minute's 
attention  to — " 

"I'll  judge  of  that." 

"Couldn't  you  let  me  judge  of  it?  You  know  me  well, 
and  Leslie  knows  me — " 

"Coming  from  Philadelphia,"  she  reflected.  "Two 
days  ago.  That  was  the  evening  you  rang  up  Leslie  and 
asked  him  to  come  down  and  see  you.  Was  it  about 
this?" 

"Yes,  it  was  about  this.  I  wanted  Leslie  to  know  that 
the  thing  was  in  print,  so  that  you  might  be  protected  from 
seeing  it." 

Her  face  and  voice  grew  stormier.  "And  you  suggested 
to  him  that  he  should  take  me  away." 

"I  did.  I  was  afraid  that  if  you  stayed  in  New  York 
during  the  next  few  days  the  thing  that  has  happened 
would  happen." 

"And  it  would  be  better  to  keep  me  in  the  dark." 

"  It  would  be  better  not  to  wound  you  when  the  wound- 
ing wouldn't  do  any  good." 

"Or  come  between  Leslie  and  his  mistresses.  That  was 
your  idea,  too,  wasn't  it?" 

"Maggie!" 

It  was  Mary  Galloway  who  uttered  the  exclamation. 
Clorinda  only  turned  round  and  looked  at  the  passionate 
woman  silently. 

"No,  Maggie,"  Bainbridge  said,  quietly.  "It  wasn't 

101 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

my  idea.    I  think  I  know  what  I'm  talking  of  when  I 
say  that  Leslie  has  no  mistresses." 

She  laughed  excitedly.     "  Then  it  must  be  an  entr'acte." 

"  Maggie,  I'm  surprised  at  you,"  he  said,  sternly.  "  You 
make  me  feel  that,  after  all,  that  idiotic  paragraph  may  be 
justified." 

"Oh,  very  likely.  Tell  me  what  it  said,  and  I'll  answer 
you." 

"Then  I  shall.  It  said  you  were — jealous  of  your 
husband." 

"Oh,  that's  nothing.  I  am.  I  make  no  secret  of  it. 
I  am — and  with  reason.  Did  it  say  any  more?" 

"Yes;  I  shall  tell  you  that,  too.  It  will  show  you  how 
you  impress  other  people.  It  said,  in  effect,  that  you  had 
an  uncontrollable  temper." 

"Well,  I  have.  Leslie  knew  that  when  he  married 
me.  I've  paid  him  to  put  up  with  it,  and  I've  paid 
him  well." 

"Oh,  Maggie,"  Mary  Galloway  cried,  "don't  say  such 
things;  or  at  least  don't  say  them  before  us!" 

Maggie  glared  at  them  all  madly.  "Why  shouldn't  I 
say  it?  Don't  you  know  it?  Doesn't  all  New  York 
know  it?  Haven't  I  bought  him?  Did  he  have  a  penny 
of  his  own  in  the  world?  Was  he  anybody?  Didn't  I 
make  him?  Haven't  I  given  him  all  the  position  he's  got? 
He's  mine;  I  own  him;  he's  my  creation.  He  hasn't  a 
coat  to  his  back  but  what  I've  given  him;  he  doesn't 
draw  a  breath  but  I  furnish  him  with  the  air.  Why 
shouldn't  I  have  a  temper?  Why  shouldn't  I  be  jealous? 
Wouldn't  you  be  jealous  if  the  thing  you  had  formed — ?" 

"Be  quiet,  Maggie,"  Bainbridge  commanded.  "You'll 
be  sorry  for  these  things  when  you've  thought  them  over; 
and  then—" 

102 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

She  uttered  her  wild  laugh.  ' '  I  can't  be  sorrier  for  them 
than  I  am  now;  and  now  my  heart  is  breaking." 

"If  your  heart  is  breaking  you're  breaking  it  yourself. 
Don't  put  the  blame  on  Leslie,  when  all  he  lives  for  is  your 
happiness." 

She  cried  out,  derisively:  "Lives  for  my  happiness! 
My  God !  When  he's  deceived  me  with  half  the  women  in 
New  York!" 

"But  he  hasn't,"  Bainbridge  insisted.  "If  he  had  I 
should  know."  . 

"Well,  if  it  was  only  with  one,  the  consequence  would 
be  the  same.  He  would  have  deceived  me." 

Clorinda  came  slowly  forward  as  if  about  to  speak, 
but  as  Bainbridge  continued  she  again  stood  still,  at  a 
distance.  "Do  you  know  for  a  fact  that  there  has  been 
any  other  woman — even  one — in  his  life,  besides  your- 
self?" 

The  great  voice  came  out  with  the  effect  of  a  tumultuous 
sob.  "I  don't  know  anything  for  a  fact.  I  only  know 
that  for  the  past  three  or  four  years  I've  been  living  in  a 
kind  of  nightmare.  I've  felt  that  something  was  wrong 
between  Leslie  and  me  without  being  able  to  tell  what  it 
was.  He's  been  miles  away  from  me;  we've  been  worlds 
apart;  and  yet  I  haven't  been  able  to  put  my  finger  on  a 
single  incident,  or  catch  him  up  in  a  single  word,  that 
would  bear  me  out.  It's  been  smothering  me;  it's  been 
killing  me;  but  I  haven't  dared  so  much  as  to  utter  a 
cry.  I've  felt  at  times  that  you  all  must  see  it — that  you 
at  least  must  see  it,  Clorinda,  when  you've  been  in  this 
country — but  you  all  seem  to  be  on  Leslie's  side  and  think 
he  has  a  right  to  make  me  suffer." 

"I  didn't  know  he  was  making  you  suffer — "  Bain- 
bridge began,  gently. 

103 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"Because  I've  laughed  and  scolded  and  put  up  my  big 
bluff,  and  tried  to  persuade  myself  that  what  I  couldn't 
see  I  mustn't  believe;  but  now  when  Claribel  Jarrott 
comes  to  me  with  her  whining  sympathy  I — I  can't — 
I  can't — I  can't  do  it  any  longer." 

She  dropped  into  the  chair  which  Bainbridge  was  still 
holding  by  the  back,  burying  her  face  in  the  muff  she 
threw  on  the  table  beside  her.  Sobs  racked  her  as  if  she 
was  a  child;  as  if  she  was  a  child  she  wept  aloud  with  a 
naive  shamelessness. 

Clorinda  advanced  again,  the  light  striking  from  the 
gold  threads  in  her  dress.  "  Maggie,"  she  began,  hoarsely, 
"Maggie—" 

But  Bainbridge  put  up  a  warning  hand  as  an  indication 
that  Maggie  was  to  be  allowed  to  weep.  It  was  Mary 
Galloway  who  sprang  forward,  kneeling  on  the  floor  be- 
side her  friend  and  throwing  an  arm  across  the  broad, 
heaving  shoulder. 

Slowly  Clorinda  withdrew  toward  the  fire,  where  she 
sat  down,  with  a  sort  of  shivering,  in  its  glow.  She  re- 
mained there,  a  mute,  bowed  figure,  curiously  weary, 
while  the  others  did  their  best  in  the  task  of  giving  con- 
solation. 

•When  Maggie  raised  her  head  and  began  to  dry  her 
eyes  by  thrusting  her  handkerchief  beneath  her  veil, 
Bainbridge  was  sitting  near  her,  where  his  eyes  could 
look  into  hers.  Mary  continued  to  kneel  on  the  floor, 
though  her  arm  had  slipped  down  to  the  older  woman's 
waist. 

"I'm  a  big  baby,"  Maggie  sobbed,  convulsively,  "but 
it's  been  so  awfully  hard." 

"I  can  see  that,"  Bainbridge  agreed,  softly,  "but  I  had 
no  idea  of  it  till  this  afternoon." 

104 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"I've  suffered  so,"  Maggie  continued,  as  she  blew  her 
nose,  "and  now  I  shall  make  him  feel  what  it  is." 

"  I  would,  if  it  will  give  you  any  comfort." 

With  her  handkerchief  raised  half-way  to  her  face  she 
stared  at  him.  "It  won't  give  me  any  comfort,  but — " 
The  sobs  still  shook  her,  as  she  said:  "It's  so  terrible  to  be 
fighting  something  and  not  know  what  it  is." 

Clorinda  looked  up  again,  but  both  Bainbridge  and 
Mary  were  too  intensely  occupied  with  Maggie  to  notice 
the  act. 

"And  you  want  him  to  tell  you.  Is  that  it?"  Bain- 
bridge  inquired. 

"I  want  to  make  him  suffer  in  the  way  he's  made 
me." 

"You  could  hardly  make  him  suffer  in  that  way.  He 
might  suffer  in  some  other  way — " 

" In  any  way,  then!  It  '11  be  all  the  same  to  me  so  long 
as  he  feels  it." 

"And  if  he  does  you'll  be  happy." 

"Oh,  happy!    It's  no  use  to  talk  about  that." 

"I  think  it  is.  You've  a  right  to  be  happy — as  happy 
as  you  can  make  yourself.  You  must  make  the  children 
happy,  too.  You've  got  to  think  of  them.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  you've  got  to  think  of  them  before  you  think  of 
anything  or  anybody  else.  And  if  seeing  Leslie  smart  is 
going  to  accomplish  that — " 

She  blew  her  nose  again.  "  I  can  look  after  the  children," 
she  said,  roughly.  "You  leave  them  to  me." 

"Quite  so.  But  what  do  you  propose  doing?  Don't 
you  think  you'd  better  have  some  form  of  program  in 
mind?  You  wouldn't  want  to  strike  wildly,  and  be  sorry 
for  it  afterward." 

"I  shall  strike  as  I  can." 

8  105 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"Then  you'll  do  it  wildly,  and  the  blow  will  probably 
recoil  upon  yourself.  Unless  you  know  what  you're  doing 
it  seems  to  me  better  to  wait." 

"No,  I  sha'n't  wait.  If  I  do— he'll— he'll  get  round 
me." 

' '  But  why  should  he  ?  If  you  don't  care  anything  about 
him—?" 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  sobbed  again.  "But 
I  do — I  do — I  do.  That's  the  worst  of  it." 

"And  may  be  the  best  of  it." 

"Maggie  darling,"  Mary  Galloway  whispered,  "you 
love  him — of  course.  We  all  know  that.  And  since  you 
do — since  there's  no  question  about  that  in  your  mind, 
or  his,  or  ours — isn't  it  better  to  act  in  love  rather  than  in 
anger?  Anger  passes,  but  love  remains.  Don't — don't 
sacrifice  the  thing  that  makes  your  life  to  what  may  not 
be  the  feeling  of  an  hour." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  anything  about  it.  You've  never 
had  a  husband.  If  you  had  had,  you'd  be  just  as  crazy  as  I 
am."  She  staggered  heavily  to  her  feet.  "It's  no  use 
talking.  You're  all  on  Leslie's  side." 

"No,  Maggie  darling,"  Mary  protested.  "We're  not 
on  Leslie's  side.  We're  only  on  the  side  of  love.  Aren't 
we,  Mr.  Bainbridge?  Aren't  we,  Clorinda?  One  doesn't 
need  to  have  been  married  to  know  that  to  wound  your 
own  love  is  to  wound  the  most  sacred  thing  about  you. 
That's  all  we  want  to  keep  you  from.  We  love  you;  no 
one  could  help  loving  you  who  knows  you  as  you  really 
are;  and  we  want  to  save  you  from  what  you  may  bitterly 
regret." 

Maggie  continued  to  blow  her  nose,  while  Mary  straight- 
ened the  crooked  hat.  "  I'm  going  home.  You  must  all 
excuse  me.  I'm  a  great  big  baby;  but,  oh,  it's  been  so 

1 06 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

hard.    I  didn't  expect  to  find  any  one  here  but  Clorinda. 
I  knew  she'd  be  sorry  for  me — ' 

Clorinda  spoke  from  the  fireside,  without  rising  or 
turning  round,  "I  am,  Maggie;  more  than  I  can  say." 

"You  needn't  try  to  tell  me.    I  know  how  you  feel." 

The  response  was  in  a  tone  at  once  ringing  and  dead: 
"Oh  no,  you  don't.  It's  far  beyond  anything  you  can 
have  any  idea  of." 

V£    Maggie  moved  toward  the  door.     Her  commonplace 

/  manner  of  speaking  had  in  some  degree  come  back  to 

her.     "Well,  I'm  going,  anyhow.     Good-by,  all  of  you. 

I'm — I'm  sorry  to  have  made  such  a  fuss — but  you  know 

what  I  am." 

Mary  Galloway  picked  up  her  muff  and  prepared  to 
depart.  She,  too,  endeavored  to  take  a  colloquial  tone. 
"I'm  going  with  you,  Maggie  dear.  Good-by,  Clorinda. 
Thank  you  for  showing  me  the  things." 

Feeling  it  his  duty  to  accompany  the  women  and,  if 
possible,  extract  from  Maggie  a  promise  to  say  nothing 
to  her  husband  that  might  make  matters  worse,  Bain- 
bridge  advanced  toward  Clorinda  to  take  his  leave.  As 
she  neither  moved  nor  looked  up  at  him  on  his  approach, 
he  was  obliged — privileged,  he  thought — to  lean  over  her. 

"I'm  sorry  this  had  to  happen  here,"  he  said;  "and 
yet  if  Maggie  had  to  pour  out  her  soul  anywhere  it  was 
better  that  it  should  be  to  us  rather  than  to  strangers." 

"It  would  have  been  still  better  if  there  had  been  noth- 
ing to  make  her  do  it." 

"I  dare  say  it  isn't  as  bad  as  she  thinks." 

"And  yet  it  may  be  worse." 

He  was  afraid  to  discuss  that  point  lest  he  should 
betray  his  knowledge  of  the  actress.  "I  must  run  away 
now,  as  I've  more  to  say  to  Maggie;  but  I  haven't  seen 

107 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

you  in  the  way  I  expected.  Mayn't  I  come  back  again 
some  other  time?" 

Her  face  was  still  averted  as  she  answered  him.  "If  I 
said  No  to  that  you'd  be  hurt,  wouldn't  you? — and  I  don't 
want  to  hurt  you." 

"Then  I'll  take  that  as  your  answer — and  come." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HPHERE  it  is  now.     I  see  it.     I'm  going  to  get  one." 

-         "No,  Maggie,  no,"  Mary  Galloway  pleaded. 

"Yes,  let  her,"  Bainbridge  said,  in  a  tone  of  authority. 
"Let  her  read  all  there  is." 

He  himself  stopped  the  motor  as  they  passed  a  lighted 
newspaper-stand,  and  got  out.  When  he  came  back  with 
the  weekly  in  his  hand  he  had  already  opened  it  to  the 
offending  paragraph.  Maggie  tried  to  read  it  by  the 
light  of  the  limousine  electric,  but  her  eyes  were  too 
blurred  with  tears. 

"I  can't,"  she  moaned.    "Tell  him  to  drive  on." 

Up  through  Fifth  Avenue  she  lay  back  in  her  corner 
of  the  motor,  silent,  suffering,  with  eyes  closed,  grasping 
the  paper  like  a  treasure  to  her  breast. 

"I  sha'n't  go  in,  Maggie,"  Miss  Galloway  whispered 
when  they  reached  the  house  in  Sixty-ninth  Street. 

"Then  Tufts  will  take  you  home." 

Bainbridge  said  nothing,  accompanying  Mrs.  Palliser 
into  the  house  as  a  matter  of  course. 

On  the  ground  floor,  near  the  front  door,  was  a  small 
room  used  chiefly  by  Leslie  or  his  stenographer  as  a  kind 
of  office.  It  was  also  a  housing-place  for  his  collection  of 
eighteenth-century  mezzo-tint  portraits  of  judges,  states- 
men, and  economists,  with  which  the  walls  were  hung. 
Followed  by  Bainbridge,  Maggie  bustled  in  here,  switch- 

109 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

ing  on  the  electric  light  and  saying  over  her  shoulder, 
"Please  shut  the  door."  Dropping  into  a  chair  beside  a 
table  on  which  stood  a  typewriter  covered  up  from  the 
dust  by  a  black  oilcloth  cap,  she  put  up  her  veil  and  read. 
Beyond  the  fact  that  the  high  color  surged  into  her  face, 
making  it  almost  purple,  she  gave  no  sign  till  she  had 
finished  the  paragraph. 

"What's  this?"  she  asked,  then,  not  angrily,  but  in  a 
meek,  tearful,  puzzled  voice.  "What's  this  about  a  cer- 
tain interesting,  dark-eyed  woman?  Who  is  she?" 

Bainbridge  felt  himself  within  the  limits  of  truth  in 
saying:  "I  don't  know.  But  what  I  do  know  is  this, 
that  you're  now  up  against  the  critical  moment  of  your 
life,  and  it's  for  you  to  show  what  the  principles  you've 
been  professing  all  these  years  amount  to." 

She  looked  round  to  where  he  stood,  still  wearing  his 
overcoat  and  holding  his  hat  in  his  hand,  with  his  back 
against  the  door.  "What  do  you  mean? — the  principles 
I've  been  professing  all  these  years?" 

"As  an  active  member  of  St.  Mary  Magdalen's  you've 
been  an  active  member  of  the  church  at  large.  As  a 
member  of  the  church  at  large  you've  subscribed  to 
certain  laws  of  conduct.  Now  then,  the  time  has 
come  to  show  whether  you  mean  to  live  by  those  laws 
or  not." 

She  shook  her  head.    "I  don't  understand  a  bit." 

"Why  did  you  get  married?" 

The  blankness  of  her  expression  betrayed  her  surprise 
at  so  futile  a  question.  "Because  I  was  in  love  with 
Leslie,  of  course." 

"And  you've  learned  that  being  in  love  with  Leslie 
has  involved  some  amount  of  give  and  take,  haven't 
you?" 

no 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

She  uttered  her  sob-like  gasp.  "Oh,  there's  been 
plenty  of  take." 

"But  you  took  it." 

"Took  it!    I've  swallowed  it  by  tons." 

"But  having  swallowed  it — by  tons — did  you  think  of 
yourself  as  a  bigger  or  a  smaller  woman  for  doing  it?" 

"He  shouldn't  have  called  on  me  to  do  it.  He  should- 
n't—" 

"No,  of  course  he  shouldn't;  but  that  is  not  our 
present  point.  I'm  asking  you  if,  when  you'd  taken  the 
dose,  you  thought  of  yourself  as  a  better  wife  to  Leslie, 
or  a  worse  one?" 

"If  Leslie  could  have  had  a  better  wife  than  I've  been — " 

"Yes,  exactly;  but  that's  still  not  the  question  before 
us.  I  want  to  know  if  you  think  you  would  have  been  a 
better  wife  to  him  by  not  taking  what  there  was  to 
take—" 

"  I  never  took  more  than  I  was  obliged  to,  and  I  wouldn't 
have  taken  that  if — " 

"If  there  had  been  a  way  of  not  doing  it.  Quite  so. 
But  let  me  put  the  question  in  this  way.  When  you 
married  Leslie  was  it  primarily  to  be  a  good  wife  to  him, 
or  to  get  a  good  husband  for  yourself?" 

"It  was  both." 

"It  was  both,  of  course;  but  I'm  asking  which  it  was 
in  the  first  place." 

"It  wasn't  either  in  the  first  place.  After  what  I  was 
willing  to  do  for  Leslie — and  have  done — it  was  the  least 
I  could  expect  that — " 

"But  suppose  you'd  been  obliged  to  put  the  one  before 
the  other,  and  to  choose  between  being  a  good  wife  to 
Leslie  and  having  a  good  husband  for  yourself,  on  which 
would  you  have  decided?" 

in 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

"  I'd  have  been  a  good  wife  to  Leslie,  just  as  I've  always 
been;  and  if  Leslie  thinks  I  haven't — 

"I  know  he  doesn't  think  so,  not  for  a  minute.  But 
in  declaring  that  you  would  prefer  to  be  a  good  wife 
to  Leslie,  even  at  the  sacrifice  of  having  him  as  a  good 
husband  to  you,  are  you  speaking  sincerely  or  only  be- 
cause you  think  it's  the  right  thing  to  say?" 

"I'm  speaking  sin — " 

"Think,  now,  Maggie.  Take  your  time.  It's  a  ques- 
tion all  married  people,  and  all  people  who  think  of  being 
married,  should  know  how  to  answer.  What  were  you 
primarily  thinking  of?" 

The  poor  red  face,  furrowed  with  trouble  and  stained 
with  tears,  was  turned  toward  his  piteously.  She  looked 
away  from  him,  then  back  to  him  again,  then  down 
at  her  hands,  then  up  at  the  ceiling.  The  process 
of  concentrated  thinking  did  not  come  to  her  easily, 
and  she  took  it  somewhat  as  a  child.  "I  said  it," 
she  gasped  at  last,  "because — because  it's  the  right 
thing  to  say." 

"That  is,  when  you  married  you  were  looking  first  of 
all  for  a  good  husband  for  yourself?" 

"Yes,"  she  asserted,  with  the  firmness  of  one  who  means 
not  to  be  ashamed  of  the  position. 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  your  success?" 

"If  Leslie  had  only  been  the  husband  to  me  that  I've 
been  wife  to  him — " 

"That's  just  the  point.  What  Leslie  has  been  to  you 
is  his  own  affair — " 

Having  been  sitting  in  profile  toward  him,  and  speak- 
ing over  her  shoulder,  she  wheeled  round  so  as  to  face 
him  directly.  "What  Leslie  has  been  to  me  is  his  own 
affair?  Do  you  mean  to  say  it  isn't  mine?" 

IJ3 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

"Not  in  the  first  place.  What's  your  affair  in  the  first 
place  is  what  you  have  been  to  him." 

"I  know  what  I've  been  to  him,"  she  declared,  in  her 
mannish  way.  "But  to  say  that  it's  not  my  affair  what 
he's  been  to  me  is  equal  to  saying  that  it's  not  my  affair 
if  a  man  doesn't  pay  me  money  when  he  owes  it." 

"Not  quite — for  the  reason  that  money  is  a  material 
thing  that  you  can  reckon  and  exact.  You  can't  reckon 
and  exact — love.  Love — I  mean  the  love  others  feel  for 
us — has  to  be  left  free.  You  can  neither  constrain  it  nor 
restrain  it,  nor  can  you  make  a  bargain  by  which  so 
much  love  must  be  paid  back  to  us  for  so  much  that  we 
give." 

"I've  given  Leslie  more  than  love — " 

"You've  given  him  money.  Yes,  so  you  told  us  just 
now." 

She  hung  her  head.  "I  wasn't  telling  you  anything 
you  didn't  know,"  she  began,  apologetically. 

"Oh  yes,  you  were,  Maggie.  You  told  us  that  you 
were  aware  of  giving  it.  I  don't  think  any  of  us  had  any 
idea  of  that — till  then." 

She  continued,  with  some  shame,  in  her  own  defense, 
"I  shouldn't  have  been  aware  of  it  if  he  hadn't  gone 
spending  my  money  on  other  women." 

He  stepped  toward  the  table,  coming  into  the  glow  of 
the  light.  "Even  if  you  knew  that  for  a  fact,  which  you 
don't—" 

"No,  but  I'm  very  nearly  sure  of  it.  I've  felt  it  for 
years;  and  now,"  she  continued,  with  her  hand  on  the 
paper,  "there's  this." 

"Being  very  nearly  sure  means  not  knowing  anything 
about  it.  But  we'll  let  that  pass.  Assuming  that  what 
you  say  is  true,  then  it's  still  Leslie's  affair,  unless — " 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

She  broke  in  wrathfully:  "My  God!  Arthur,  for  a  sane 
man  you  are  the  biggest  fool — " 

"Wait;  you  haven't  let  me  finish;  I'm  going  to  say 
it's  still  Leslie's  affair — unless  you  mean  to  break  with 
him." 

"Break  with  him?    Break  with  him,  how?" 

"Separate  from  him;  send  him  about  his  business; 
divorce  him." 

She  stared  up  at  him.    " Do  you  advise  me  to  do  that?" 

"No,  I  don't;  but  unless  you  make  up  your  mind  to 
it—" 

"Well,  what?" 

"You  must  make  up  your  mind  to  the  other  thing." 

"What  other  thing?" 

"To  living  with  him,  to  going  on  as  in  the  past." 

"Well,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  it.  What  else  did 
you  think?" 

"I  thought  you  were  trying  to  find  something  between 
the  two — to  living  with  him,  and  making  him  unhappy." 

"Don't  you  think  he  deserves  it?" 

"Not  on  any  such  grounds  as  you  know  anything 
about.  If  you're  going  by  that  thing — "  He  pointed  to 
the  paper  lying  on  the  table. 

"Oh,  but  I'm  not.  That  only  corroborates  what  I've 
felt  for  the  last  three  or  four  years." 

"All  the  same  you  don't  know.  And  even  if  you  did, 
so  long  as  you  mean  to  live  with  Leslie  you  must  live 
with  him  on  a  high  plane  and  not  on  a  low  one.  That's 
what  I  meant  just  now  when  I  spoke  of  being  true  to 
your  principles.  If  principles  stand  for  anything  in  your 
life,  you've  got  a  chance  to  prove  it." 

"Prove  it  how?" 

"By  changing  your  mental  basis;  by  thinking  less  of 
114 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

what  sort  of  a  husband  Leslie  is  to  you,  and  more  of  what 
sort  of  a  wife  you  are  to  him." 

She  slapped  her  hand  sharply  on  the  table.  "I've  been 
a  good  wife  to  him.  No  one  could  have  been  better." 

"Really?  Then  in  that  case  there's  no  more  to  be 
said." 

"What  do  you  think  yourself,  man?  You've  been  in 
and  out  for  the  past  four  years.  You've  seen  with  your 
own  eyes — " 

"What  I  see  with  my  own  eyes,  Maggie,  is  that  you've 
been  nourishing  suspicions  in  your  heart,  and  turning 
into  realities  things  you  don't  know  anything  about;  and 
now  when  the  minute  comes  you  let  them  all  rush  out 
like  a  freshet  in  the  spring,  with  a  force  that  will  carry 
you  both  away  with  it.  Remember  that  you  can't  punish 
Leslie  without  punishing  yourself;  and  of  the  two  it's 
probably  you  who'll  suffer  most." 

She  sat  for  a  few  minutes,  with  her  elbow  resting  on 
the  table  and  her  hand  shading  her  eyes.  When  she 
looked  up  it  was  to  say: 

"Then  what  would  you  have  me  do?" 

"I'd  have  you  not  attempt,  or  think  you  can  attempt, 
the  impossible." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"I  mean  that  you  can't  live  Leslie's  life,  or  shoulder 
his  duties,  or  make  up  for  his  shortcomings,  or  be  respon- 
sible for  his  sins.  You've  got  enough  to  do  with  your 
own.  If  you  wanted  to  be  rid  of  him — to  divorce  him,  as 
you  might  possibly  find  you  could  do — I  don't  say  it, 
mind  you !  but  it's  what  you've  been  hinting  at  yourself — 
but  if  you  wanted  to  be  free — well,  that  would  be  another 
thing." 

Bringing  both  her  fists  down  on  the  table  with  a  thump, 

"5 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

she  cried  out:   "But,  good  Lord,  man,  I  love  him  more 
than  I  ever  did!" 

"Quite  so;  but  instead  of  showing  love,  you  now  pro- 
pose to  show  hatred.  Can  love  possibly  act  in  that  way?" 

"But  what  else  can  I  do  when  he — ?" 

"You  can  go  on  loving  him;  you  can  show  him  more 
love  and  more  love;  you  can  love  him  for  himself,  and  not 
for  yourself." 

"Haven't  I  been  doing  that?" 

"No,  Maggie,  no.  It's  time  you  understood  it — time 
you  opened  your  eyes  to  the  fact  that  your  love  has  been 
selfish,  egotistic.  You've  loved  Leslie — you  told  us  so 
just  now,  didn't  you? — as  something  you  owned,  some- 
thing you'd  bought,  something  you'd  created." 

"But  how  can  I  help  it,  when  before  he  married  me  he 
was  only  a  wee  little  instructor  in  political  economy  at 
Columbia" — she  snapped  her  fingers — "and  didn't  have 
a  cent  to  his  name?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  pitying  smile.  "  Poor  Maggie ! 
That's  just  it.  You  don't  see — you  must  forgive  me  for 
saying  it! — or,  rather,  you  can  forgive  me  or  not,  as  you 
like! — you'll  be  the  happier  for  knowing  it,  and  you'll 
never  be  happy  till  you  do  know  it!  You  don't  see  that  in 
many  ways  Leslie  is  superior  to  you — and  that  your  work 
is  to  try  to  come  up  to  him."  As  he  could  see  that  resent- 
ment struggled  in  her  mind  with  approval  of  his  words, 
he  went  on:  "Leslie  is  really  a  distinguished  man,  in  his 
own  line.  He's  the  friend  of  distinguished  men,  and  he 
brings  them  to  your  house.  He's  more  than  that.  There's 
something  rather  exquisite  in  his  nature,  something 
ultra-refined — " 

"Oh,  we're  all  ultra-refined  nowadays,"  she  declared, 
scornfully. 

116 


"Pardon  me,  we're  not.  Some  of  us  have  a  great  deal 
to  learn  in  that  direction.  I'd  think  of  that,  Maggie,  if 
I  were  you." 

"Are  you  hinting  that — that  I'm — I'm" — she  could 
hardly  pronounce  the  words — "that  I'm — I'm  not  re- 
fined?" 

"You're  splendid,  Maggie.  You're  good  and  honest 
and  true  and  sincere;  but  there's  something  about 
Leslie—" 

"Which  isn't  about  me?    Is  that  it?" 

"Nor  about  me;  nor  about  most  of  us."  She  drew  a 
long,  hard  breath  as  he  continued:  "You  speak  of  what 
I've  seen  with  my  own  eyes,  Maggie.  Well,  among  other 
things,  I've  seen  that,  much  as  you  love  Leslie,  you've 
never  treated  him  otherwise  than  as  a  regnant  queen 
might  treat  a  prince  consort.  You've  given  to  him; 
you've  not  been  willing  to  share  a  common  life  with  him. 
In  this  very  house  you've  always  been  the  head,  while 
he's  been  a  few  removes  higher  than  the  butler." 

"Arthur,  what  nonsense!" 

"It's  true,  Maggie.  You've  spoken  of  my  house  and 
my  motor  and  my  guests  at  times  when  most  people 
would  say  our." 

"But  Leslie's  always  known  that  he  was  free  to  con- 
sider everything — " 

"As  his  own.  Yes,  while  you  considered  that  it  was 
not  his  own — not  quite  his  own — and  Leslie  is  as  sensitive 
to  that  sort  of  slight  as  mercury  to  cold.  You've  ruled 
him,  Maggie — " 

A  sound  at  the  outside  door  impelled  her  to  whisper: 
"Hush!  He's  coming  in." 

"Then  I  shall  leave  you  together.  Remember,  Maggie, 
that  you're  now  at  a  turning-point  in  your  life.  It  may 

117 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

depend  on  what  you  say  within  the  next  few  minutes 
whether  you  win  Leslie  back — " 

"If  I  have  to  win  him  back  I  don't  know  that  I  want 
him." 

"Then  it's  something  you  ought  to  know — to  know  in 
such  a  way  that  you'll  be  sure  of  what  you're  about. 
Remember,  too,  that  nothing  is  so  patient  as  the  right 
kind  of  love;  and  that  if  your  love  isn't  patient  it's  not 
of  the  right  kind.  There's  something  lacking  to  it — 
something  you  must  supply  before  you've  a  right  to  take 
any  one  to  task.  Why  not  wait  till  you  can  see  exactly 
where  you're  tending?  What  good  will  it  do  you  or  your 
children  to  humiliate  their  father  when  you've  no  end  in 
view  beyond  his  humiliation?" 

Snatching  up  the  paper  and  slipping  it  under  her  coat, 
she  muttered  words  to  the  effect  that  it  was  easy  for 
people  to  talk  when  they  hadn't  known  the  suffering, 
while  Bainbridge  threw  open  the  door.  Palliser  was  in 
the  hall,  where  the  footman  was  helping  him  out  of  his 
fur  coat. 

"Hello,  Arthur!" 

"Hello,  Leslie!" 

"Stay  to  dinner,  won't  you?" 

"Thanks,  no.  Have  a  meeting  this  evening.  Came 
home  with  Maggie,  to — to  talk  over  something."  He 
nodded  toward  the  reception-room.  "She's  in  there." 

To  Bainbridge,  Palliser's  expression  was  not  the  less 
pitiable  for  being  ridiculous.  The  guilty  man  coming 
face  to  face  with  a  wrathful  wife  was  a  subject  that  had 
lent  itself  to  comic  treatment  ever  since  men  had  been 
writing  plays.  Viewed  objectively  there  was  something 
comic  in  the  situation.  It  was  impossible  to  speak  of  it 
since  Maggie  was  within  earshot  and  almost  within 

118 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

sight;  but  in  their  silent  rolling  of  the  eyes  toward  each 
other,  as  they  clasped  hands  and  Bainbridge  got  himself 
out  of  the  house,  there  was  gravity  and  sympathy  and 
mutual  comprehension,  not  unmingled  with  an  element 
of  acrid  masculine  amusement. 


CHAPTER  IX 

"  T  \  7  HO  is  the  interesting  girl  at  the  end  of  the  second 
V  V  row  on  the  left?"  It  was  the  first  time  Clorinda 
had  spoken  since  entering  the  big  room,  in  which  the 
institutional  smell  of  disinfectant  mingled  with  the  odor 
of  Christmas  boughs. 

In  spite  of  all  efforts  to  the  contrary  the  eight  or  ten 
visitors  wore  an  air  of  compassionate  condescension  as 
they  sat  facing  the  three  rows  of  so-called  incorrigible 
girls  who  had  been  driven  in  dumbly  to  their  annual 
treat.  The  treat  was  at  the  end  of  the  room,  behind  the 
visitors — a  pyramidal  Christmas  tree  hung  with  festoons 
of  tinsel  and  popped  corn,  illuminated  by  electric  candles, 
growing  sweets  and  fruits  in  exotic  abundance,  and  spring- 
ing from  a  soil  of  parcels.  Twenty-seven  pairs  of  girlish 
eyes  observed  it  with  cold,  detached  attention.  It  was 
part  of  the  official  routine,  one  of  the  pleasanter  phases 
of  a  discipline  intended  for  their  good.  It  would  yield 
them  some  candies  to  eat  and  a  few  useful  things  to  wear. 
To  this  degree  it  was  acceptable;  but  otherwise  it  was 
not  a  Christmas  tree.  Nothing  could  make  it  a  Christmas 
tree.  A  Christmas  tree  was  fun  and  freedom  and  spon- 
taneity; it  was  giving  as  well  as  getting;  it  was  saving 
and  planning  and  contriving  and  surprising  and  taking 
an  active  part.  Here  nothing  was  asked  but  a  well-be- 
haved acquiescence,  a  stolid  thankfulness,  both  of  which 

1 20 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

could  be  given  without  a  blink  of  the  eye.  "Between  us 
and  you  there  is  a  great  gulf  fixed,"  the  beneficiaries 
seemed  to  say  to  their  rescuers  and  patrons,  "and  nothing 
you  can  do  will  bridge  it  over." 

It  was  the  interval  between  two  carols.  The  girls 
having  exhibited  their  talents  in  "Good  Christian  men 
rejoice,"  were  taking  breath  before  beginning  on  another. 
They  sat  silent  and  blank.  They  were  neither  sullen  nor 
rebellious  nor  hostile;  they  were  only  unresponsive.  As 
nearly  as  might  be  their  delicate  bodies  and  haggard 
young  faces  and  watchful,  mysterious  eyes  were  set  to 
the  passivity  of  a  human  stone  wall  against  which  mere 
kindliness  beat  in  vain. 

Bainbridge,  who  was  seated  next  to  Clorinda,  answered 
her  question.  The  girl  was  Pansy  Wilde,  who  had  been 
handed  over  to  the  institution — now  known  as  the  House 
of  Comfort,  though  the  eighteenth  century  had  called  it 
the  Asylum  for  Young  Penitent  Females — by  the  Juvenile 
Court.  He  recounted  her  experiences,  more  or  less  char- 
acteristic of  those  of  her  sister  inmates.  The  child,  for 
she  was  little  more,  had  been  in  domestic  service.  From 
this  she  had  been  dismissed  owing  to  a  wilfulness  of  con- 
duct incompatible  with  household  propriety.  When  about 
to  become  a  mother  she  had  fled  from  home,  taking 
refuge  with  a  woman  in  Brooklyn,  in  whose  house  the 
child  was  born.  To  earn  a  living  for  herself  and  her  baby 
Pansy  had  been  put  to  shifts  which  Bainbridge's  narra- 
tive passed  over  lightly  to  go  straight  to  the  tragic  point. 
On  returning  one  evening  to  the  house  where  she  roomed, 
Pansy  had  found  the  child  dead.  She  had  then  been 
arrested  for  killing  it.  Of  this  crime  she  was  acquitted. 
The  charge  proved  against  her  was  that,  having  been 
turned  out  of  more  than  one  house  when  it  was  found  she 

9  121 


had  a  child,  she  had  concealed  the  fact  by  leaving  the 
baby  half  smothered  in  her  bed.  Since,  however,  she  was 
considered  to  have  done  what  she  could  according  to  her 
opportunities  and  her  lights,  the  judge  had  delivered  her 
to  Miss  Merry,  the  deaconess  of  St.  Mary  Magdalen's, 
to  be  lodged  in  the  House  of  Comfort. 

"You're  speaking  of  Pansy  Wilde,"  said  Miss  Downie, 
the  head  matron,  who  sat  on  Clorinda's  other  side.  "Ever 
since  she  came  to  us  she's  been  just  like  that." 

Just  like  that  meant  staring  with  wide,  vacant,  violet 
eyes  that  seemed  to  see  nothing,  or  to  see  what  others 
couldn't.  She  was  a  tall,  slim  girl,  whose  beauty  and 
refinement  made  Bainbridge  think — though  he  shrank 
from  the  comparison — of  what  Clorinda  herself  might 
have  been  at  seventeen. 

Miss  Downie,  a  neat  little  woman  about  whom  there 
was  nothing  of  the  jailer  but  two  burning,  vigilant  eyes 
and  a  bunch  of  keys  that  jingled  when  she  moved,  con- 
tinued to  explain.  She  had  had  girls  like  Pansy  Wilde 
before,  though  none  that  had  remained  in  this  dazed  and 
docile  state  so  long.  "She's  a  bidable  little  thing,  and 
clever;  but  you've  got  to  tell  her  what  to  do  every  time 
it's  to  be  done." 

Bainbridge  was  impressed  with  the  quality  of  emotion 
in  Clorinda's  tone  as  she  said:  "She  reminds  me  of  a 
wounded  bird  I  once  took  into  the  house.  I  did  what  I 
could  for  it — but  it  was  too  stricken  to  find  comfort  in 
warmth  and  food.  It  needed  something  else  I  wasn't 
able  to  give  it." 

"Oh,  well,  she'll  come  round,"  Miss  Downie  declared, 
with  confidence.  "They  all  do,  in  the  long  run;  and  they 
generally  thank  us." 

The  girls  sang  another  Christmas  carol: 

122 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"Oh,  little  town  of  Bethlehem, 

How  still  we  see  thee  lie! 
Above  thy  sweet  and  dreamless  sleep 
The  silent  stars  go  by." 

It  was  hammered  out  with  the  hearty,  shadeless,  me- 
chanical effect  of  a  pianola,  after  which  Bainbridge  stood 
up  and  gave  the  girls  a  little  Christmas  "talk."  It  was  a 
simple  and  affectionate  talk,  but  it  appeared  to  penetrate 
no  deeper  than  the  glory  of  the  Christmas  tree.  The 
same  unrelenting  faces  were  turned  toward  the  speaker, 
who,  as  far  as  could  be  judged  from  anything  that  met 
the  eye,  poured  out  his  heart  to  a  patient  listlessness  that 
had  no  capacity  to  receive  his  words.  When  they  were 
ended  Colfax  Pole,  a  young-old  man  with  exceedingly 
long,  beardless  features,  and  blond  hair  parted  in  the 
middle,  handed  the  gifts  to  Mrs.  Endsleigh  Jarrott,  the 
wife  of  the  institution's  treasurer,  who  pfesented  them 
to  each  of  the  girls  in  turn,  with  smiles  and  nods  and  pats 
on  the  cheek,  to  which  there  was  in  no  case  a  response. 
All  the  hilarity  was  on  one  side,  all  the  demonstration. 
Even  with  their  parcels  in  their  laps  the  young  penitent 
females  sat  apathetic,  timorous,  with  no  sign  of  curiosity 
or  pleasure  beyond  a  furtive  sidelong  look,  or  a  shy,  half- 
frightened  smile.  When  the  wrapped-up  present  Clorinda 
had  selected  for  Pansy  Wilde  slipped  from  the  girl's  knees 
to  the  floor  she  didn't  so  much  as  stoop  to  pick  it  up. 
That  was  done  by  Miss  Downie,  who  bustled  forward 
with  a  jocose  word  of  reprimand  that  left  Pansy  as  dazed 
and  remote  as  ever. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  that  child,"  Clorinda  whispered  to 
Bainbridge  when  the  ceremonies  were  ended  and  the 
girls  rose  to  troop  out. 

Bainbridge  hurried  away.  In  a  minute  he  was  back, 

123 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

leading  Pansy  lightly  by  the  hand.  "Pansy,"  he  said, 
gently,  "Mrs.  Gildersleeve  wants  to  speak  to  you." 

It  would  have  been  difficult  to  say  which  of  the  two  was 
the  more  terrified.  Clorinda  was  unused  to  philanthropy. 
She  had  had  no  experience  of  the  cheery,  capable  ways  of 
those  who  set  out  to  do  good  to  others.  All  she  could 
achieve  was  to  look  yearningly  at  the  tall  child  before 
her,  while  Bainbridge,  moved  as  he  had  never  been 
moved  by  anything,  looked  at  her. 

"Do — do  you  like  it  here2" 

"Yes'm — yes,  miss." 

Question  and  answer  were  stammered,  futile.  Because 
of  a  need  of  which  she  hardly  knew  the  force  to  break  the 
ice,  Clorinda  persisted,  "Are — are  you  happy  here?" 

"Yes'm — yes,  miss." 

"No,  you're  not  happy." 

Something  welled  up  in  Pansy  like  a  big,  tearless  sob. 
"N-n-no;  no'm." 

"You  want  to  get  out,  don't  you?" 

"Oh,  yes — I  mean,"  she  caught  herself  up — "I  mean — 
I  mean — oh,  no — oh,  yes — oh — " 

"You'll  be  late  now,  Pansy,  if  you  don't  run  away," 
Bainbridge  intervened,  fearing  the  effect  of  Clorinda's 
words.  "Good -by.  Mrs.  Gildersleeve  has  been  very 
glad  to  see  you." 

As  the  girl  turned  Clorinda  stepped  forward  and 
touched  one  of  the  parcels  Pansy  held  in  her  hand.  "I 
gave  you  that.  I — I  want  you  to  know  when — when  you 
wear  it." 

The  last  of  the  girls  was  filing  out  and  Miss  Scattergood, 
a  scraggy,  long-necked  lady,  with  a  face  like  a  benevolent 
giraffe,  turned  to  include  Pansy  in  the  tail  of  the  proces- 
sion. Miss  Scattergood's  keys  also  jingled  as  she  moved. 

124 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

Clorinda  stood  as  one  transfixed  till  from  somewhere  in 
the  direction  of  which  the  girls  had  retreated  came  a  sound 
like  the  slipping  of  a  bolt. 

"Oh,  they've  locked  them  up!" 

To  reassure  her  Bainbridge  smiled.  "No,  they  haven't 
exactly  locked  them  up.  They've  only  locked  the  door 
leading  from  the  open  to  the  closed  part  of  the  institution. 
They  have  to  do  that  to  keep  the  mischievous  girls  from 
stealing  out  and  running  away." 

She  looked  at  him  with  an  oblique  pleading  lifting  of 
the  eyes.  "  Come  home  with  me.  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
— to  have  you  talk  to  me — and  I  can't  bear  it  here  any 
longer." 

~ f"  She  had  never  before  addressed  him  in  just  this  way, 
this  appealing  way,  this  child-like,  confidential  way,  as  if 
in  some  undefined  sense  she  belonged  to  him.  She  needed 
comfort  and  for  it  looked  to  him.  To  whom  else  should 
she  look?  As  he  took  his  seat  beside  her  in  the  limousine 
it  was  hard  for  him  not  to  seize  her  hand. 

She  began  at  once,  excitedly.  "There's  something 
about  that  child — about  them  all,  but  about  her  especially 
— that  almost  breaks  my  heart.  I  seem  to  see  myself  as 
I  might  have  been  if — if  circumstances  hadn't  been 
different." 

"Wasn't  it  John  Howard,  the  Quaker  philanthropist, 
who  said,  when  he  saw  a  man  taken  out  to  be  hanged, 
'There,  but  for  the  grace  of  God,  goes  myself'?  You 
feel  the  same  thing." 

"No,  I  don't  feel  the  same  thing.  That  couldn't  have 
happened,  whereas  this  could.  It's  what  would  have 
happened,  if  I'd  been  in  the  place  of  any  one  of  them." 
As  the  chauffeur  turned  the  machine  she  confronted 
Bainbridge  with  a  gesture  toward  the  big  brick  building 

125 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

behind  high  walls  from  the  lighted  doorway  of  which  they 
were  moving  away.  "Isn't  there  any  better  method  of 
helping  them  than  that?" 

His  thoughts  were  so  intently  on  her  that  he  hardly 
knew  how  he  answered.  "There  probably  is;  but  the 
world  hasn't  found  it  yet." 

"Then  can't  we  find  it?" 

"That's  considered  very  good,  you  know — as  such  in- 
stitutions go." 

"It's  awful;  it's  terrible;  it's — it's  inhuman." 

They  sat  turned  toward  each  other.  In  the  street 
lights  he  could  see  her  eyes  aflame.  His  voice  seemed 
to  him  to  come  from  far  away.  It  would  have  been 
so  much  easier  to  say  what  was  burning  on  his  lips. 
"It  may  be  inhuman,  but  it's  neither  terrible  nor  awful. 
You  must  remember  what  the  poor  little  souls  have 
escaped  from." 

"But  they  hate  it." 

"They  hate  the  restriction;  but  unless  they're  re- 
strained you  can't  do  them  any  good." 

"Oh  yes,  you  can.  There  must  be  a  way — a  better 
way  than  that." 

"Of  course  there's  a  better  way  than  that,  if  you  could 
get  any  one  to  take  it.  But  you  couldn't.  An  institution 
is  only  second  best,  or  third  best,  when  you've  said  all 
you  can  for  it.  But  we  have  to  use  the  means  which  the 
limitations  of  nature  and  society  put  into  our  hands.  If 
Pansy  Wilde  weren't  here,  fed  and  clothed  and  taught 
and  kept  warm — " 

She  broke  in  fiercely.  "She  doesn't  want  to  be  fed  and 
clothed  and  taught  and  kept  warm.  She  wants  love." 

"Oh,  we  all  want  love — but  it  isn't  necessarily  good 
for  us." 

126 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"It  is  good,  if  it's  of  the  right  kind." 

"Oh,  if  it's  of  the  right  kind,  I  agree  with  you.  The 
trouble  is — " 

"The  trouble  is  with  ourselves.  We  haven't  got  hearts. 
What  we've  seen  just  now  is  the  attempt  to  produce  the 
effect  of  love  by  machinery.  That's  as  effective  as  bring- 
ing up  babies  on  artificial  milk." 

He  was  still  not  thinking  of  his  words;  he  was  thinking 
of  her.  Never  before  had  he  seen  her  wake  like  this  to 
indignation  and  emotion.  Through  the  crush  of  traffic 
on  this  Christmas  Eve  the  car  moved  but  a  few  yards  at 
a  time,  to  be  subjected  to  long  waits,  of  which  neither 
took  any  notice.  All  the  New  York  of  old  Greenwich 
Village  seemed  to  be  astir.  The  shops  were  doing  an 
active  trade;  the  footways  were  thronged;  in  the  win- 
dows of  faded  dwellings  there  was  here  and  there  the 
lighting  up  of  a  Christmas  tree.  Newsboys  shrieked  the 
evening  papers;  the  Elevated  thundered  overhead;  from 
the  bay  came  the  not  infrequent  whistle  of  a  ferry-boat 
or  a  tug.  While  it  could  hardly  be  said  to  be  snowing,  an 
occasional  large  soft  snowflake  drifted  adown  the  window- 
pane.  Bainbridge  felt  himself  imprisoned  with  her  on 
some  secure,  secluded  isle,  with  an  ocean  to  protect  the 
refuge.  "That's  very  true,"  he  said,  absently,  as  he 
watched  the  quiver  of  her  mouth;  "but  we  mustn't  un- 
dervalue what  other  people  have  tried  to  do.  We  can't 
despise  the  methods  of  our  fathers  and  grandfathers 
which  we  inherit,  even  though  we  feel  that,  to  some  extent, 
we've  outlived  them.  A  man  who  is  half-way  up  a  ladder 
mustn't  scorn  the  rungs  by  which  he's  climbed;  because 
without  them  he  wouldn't  be  where  he  is." 

"You  said  just  now,"  she  observed,  after  a  minute's 
thinking,  "that  there's  a  better  way,  only  that  people 

127 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

wouldn't  take  it."    She  fixed  him  with  the  gaze  of  her 
deep,  liquid  eyes.    "Why  couldn't  I?" 

"There's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't — apart  from  the 
conventions  of  the  world  in  which  we  live."  He  asked, 
before  she  could  respond,  "Do  you  know  what  I  meant 
when  I  said  that?" 

"  I  suppose  you  meant  what  I  mean.  If  we — if  we  need 
love  more  than  we  need  anything  else — anything  else  in 
the  world! — then  it — it  must  come  directly  out  of  some 
one's  heart — and  not  from  a  corporation  which  is  organ- 
ized and  supported  by  dollars  and  cents.  We  can't  fur- 
nish love  in  that  way  any  more  than  the  Tibetans  can 
get  prayer  by  grinding  on  a  prayer-mill.  Isn't  that  some- 
thing like  what  you  meant?" 

"That's  it." 

"And,"  she  continued,  breathlessly,  "you  think  that 
in  our  present — our  present — " 

"Stage  of  human  development,"  he  supplied. 

" — our  present  stage  of  human  development  we're  not 
prepared  to  give  the  personal  love,  which  is  the  only  kind 
that  the  needy  can  be  satisfied  with.    You  think  that, 
don't  you?" 
.    "It's  what  I  gather— what  I  see." 

"But  some  one  must  make  a  beginning,  mustn't  they?" 
She  seemed  to  draw  herself  up  in  her  corner  of  the  motor. 
"Very  well,  then.  I  will." 

"You  will— what?" 

"I'll  give  love.  I  can,"  she  went  on,  rapidly.  "It's 
what  I  was  made  for.  I've  given  you  to  understand  that 
already,  haven't  I?— that  time!— you  remember!—" 

"No,  I  don't  remember." 

"That's  because  you're  so  kind — you've  put  it  out  of 
your  memory.  But  it's  not  what  I  want  to  talk  about 

128 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

now.  I  only  want  you  to  see — what,  I  suppose,  you  do 
see  already — but  I  want  to  be  sure  that  you  see— I  hardly 
know  how  to  put  it! — that  essentially  I'm  only  that — 
that  feminine  compound  which  has  been  described  as — 
as  a  great  lover.  There !  I've  shocked  you  now,  haven't 
I? — and  yet  I  don't  mean  to.  There's  a  strong  side  to  it, 
as  well  as  a  weak  one — " 

He  said,  with  gentle  significance,  "  You  haven't  shocked 
me,  Clorinda." 

She  seemed  not  to  notice  the  use  of  her  own  name  as 
she  hurried  on.  "The  strong  side  is  that  it's  out  of  women 
like  me  that  nature  makes  not  only  great  wives  and  great 
mistresses,  but  great  mothers.  I  should  have  been  a 
mother.  .  .  .  I'm  so  much  a  mother  that  I  could  love 
almost  any  child  as  if  it  was  my  own.  ...  I  begin  to 
think  that  perhaps  I'm  not  a  mother  for  the  very  reason 
that  I  might  take  some  motherless  thing — " 

"If  you  mean  Pansy  Wilde — " 

"If  I  mean  Pansy  Wilde  it's  only  because  the  little 
creature  wrings  my  heart.  She's  so  like — like  myself  as 
I  might  have  been  at  her  age — as  I  was,  in  some  ways — 
only  that  conditions  hedged  me  in.  But  I  remember — I 
remember  very  clearly.  It  was  only  fourteen  years  ago 
that  I  was  seventeen,  as  she  is  to-day.  And  I  wanted 
just  what  she's  been  looking  for — I  wanted  love.  I  didn't 
talk  about  it;  but  I  dreamt  of  it;  I  dreamt  of  nothing 
else.  When  it  didn't  come  I  married — but  I  kept  the 
dream.  It  never  came  true — not  in  the  way  in  which  I 
dreamed  it.  It  was  always — always  frustrated — as  I  told 
you — and  you  know."  He  was  about  to  say  that  she 
hadn't  told  him  and  he  didn't  know,  but  she  silenced  him. 
"No;  let  me  go  on.  I  want  you  to  understand  that  I 
feel  a  kinship  with  these  poor  girls.  We're  of  the  same 

129 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

clay.  I  could  have  been  like  them;  they  could  have  been 
like  me.  It's  for  me  to  do  what  may  be  done,  for  one  of 
them  at  least.  If  they'd  let  me  take  her — " 

"Take  her  in  what  way?" 

"To  live  with  me — so  that  I  could  comfort  her — heal 
her — be  a  friend  to  her." 

"Have  you  thought  of  the  difficulties  that  that  would 
involve  you  in?" 

"I  know  there'd  be  difficulties;  but  do  you,  of  all 
people,  advise  me  to  shrink  from  them?" 

"And  have  you  thought  of  the  capacity  in  which  she'd 
be  an  inmate  of  your  house?" 

"I've  thought  of  it  vaguely.  I  shouldn't  try  to  do 
anything  absurd.  I'd  train  her  to  be  a  kind  of  superior 
maid,  or  possibly — if  she  had  the  intelligence — I  should 
have  her  taught  to  be  a  secretary.  I  should  want  her  to 
earn  her  own  living.  .  .  .  But" — a  gesture  expressed 
her  impatience  with  this  part  of  the  subject — "all  that  is 
mere  detail.  The  main  thing  is  that  my  heart  bleeds  for 
her;  and  if  I've  got  the  means  and  the  power  to  take  her 
out  of  that  place,  and  give  her  the  chance  she's  never 
had  .  .  .  '  She  broke  off  again,  to  begin  on  another 
aspect  of  the  theme.  "Then  I  shouldn't  feel  so  useless  in 
the  world.  I  shouldn't  be  so  repressed.  I  am  repressed. 
Don't  you  see  I  am?  I  always  have  been.  I've  always 
been  like  this — outwardly — stately  and  calm,  and  a  lady. 
Oh  yes,  I've  had  to  be  a  lady,  no  matter  what  else  I 
was!  but  inwardly — don't  think  I'm  wild  or  excited — 
I'm  just  telling  you  the  truth— I've  told  you  the  truth 
before,  haven't  I? — inwardly,  I'm  raging  fire." 

"I've  guessed  as  much  as  that — I've  known  it." 

"Yes,  of  course  you  have.  You've  been  the  only  one 
who  could.  That's  why  I  feel  so  free  to  talk  to  you.  No 

130 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

one  would  believe  it;  and  yet  raging  fire  is  what  expresses 
me.  Only  it's  been  fire  like  that  of  the  volcano  that 
burst  open  a  few  years  ago — what  was  the  name  of  the 
island? — Martinique,  wasn't  it? — a  volcano  that  seemed 
so  tame  that  no  one  thought  it  was  a  volcano.  Grass 
grew  over  it,  and  trees ;  it  was  just  a  splendid,  peaceful  hill. 
Men  climbed  it,  and  children  played  on  it;  and  then,  one 
fine  morning.  .  .  .  That's  what  I'm  afraid  of.  ...  But  this 
— don't  you  see? — this  would  open  up  a  way  for  me.  It 
would  be  just  in  my  line — just  the  sort  of  thing  I  could 
do.  Don't  you  remember  my  telling  you  how  ashamed  I 
was  last  summer  to  come  away  from  Paris  because  there 
was  no  way  in  which  I  knew  how  to  help?  But  I  do  know 
this  way.  .  .  .  No,  I  couldn't  do  it  like  Claribel  Jarrott 
and  Colfax  Pole — with  grimaces  and  pretty  speeches.  I 
couldn't  be  a  visitor  at  that  place — or  one  of  your  charity- 
workers.  No.  I  could  only  do  it  in  my  own  way — by 
loving — by  being  loved — " 

He  was  at  the  limit  of  his  strength.  Seizing  the  two 
hands  with  which  she  had  been  making  little  gestures  as 
she  spoke,  he  held  them  tightly.  "I  love  you,  Clorinda; 
/  love  you.  Let  me  bring  what  you're  craving  for." 

She  didn't  withdraw  her  hands;  she  allowed  him  to 
hold  them.  She  even  leaned  toward  him,  to  observe  him 
more  closely.  But  he  watched  the  blaze  in  her  eyes  die 
down  as  though  something  had  suddenly  put  it  out.  It 
seemed  an  immeasurable  time  before  she  spoke.  "  You! — 
a  clergyman! — a — a  priest !" 

"I'm  a  man,  Clorinda,"  he  whispered,  hoarsely. 

She  still  allowed  him  to  hold  her  hands,  though  the 
clasp  grew  limp.  "Yes,"  she  responded,  dully.  "You're 
a  man;  but  I  hadn't  thought  of  you  as  a  man  in — in  just 
this  way." 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"In  what  way  did  you  think  of  me?" 

Her  response  came  slowly.  "I  don't  know.  In  as  far 
as  I've  thought  of  you  at  all — personally — it's  been  very 
much  as  one  might  think  of — of  an  angel." 

She  withdrew  her  hands  quietly  and  slipped  them  into 
her  muff.  After  sitting  upright  and  eager  she  fell  back 
into  her  corner  of  the  motor  with  a  silence  that  seemed 
to  imply  that  the  last  word  had  been  said.  In  the  few 
inches  by  which  he  strained  toward  her  Bainbridge  felt 
that  he  was  pursuing  her  through  some  long  inward 
flight. 

"But  I'm  not  an  angel,  Clorinda.  I'm  just  a  man;  and 
it's  as  a  man  that  I  love  you.  I  love  you  like  any  other 
man;  only  that  it  seems  to  me  as  if  there  must  be  some- 
thing higher  and  stronger  in  my  love  than — " 

She  murmured  the  words  through  half-closed  lips. 
"Oh,  I'm  very  sure  of  that." 

"No,  that  isn't  what  I  mean.  I  only  say  that  that's 
how  it  seems  to  me — because  I  love  you  so  much.  Any 
man  would  love  you  with  a  high,  strong  love.  I  simply 
say  that  my  love  is  so  high  and  so  strong  that  I  feel  as  if 
nothing  would  ever  equal  it." 

There  was  a  kind  of  weariness  in  her  tone.  "And  I 
dare  say  nothing  ever  could.  Only — don't  you  see? — I 
never  thought  of  it.  I'd  put  you — put  you,  in  a  way,  off 
the  earthly  list.  I'd  thought  of  you  as  my  friend,  in  the 
same  way  that  you're  Maggie's  and  Leslie's — " 

"Do  you  want  me  to  understand  that  there's  no  hope 
for  me?" 

In  the  flood  of  street  electricity  he  caught  a  gleam  in 
her  eyes  like  that  of  light  moving  under  water.  "  I  don't 
know  what  you  mean  by  hope." 

"I  mean  hope  that  you  could  love  me  in  return." 

132 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

"Oh,  that!" 

"Yes,  that." 

He  waited  for  her  to  speak  again,  but  she  said  nothing. 
Instead,  she  leaned  back  in  her  corner  with  eyes  closed. 
Having  jerked  their  way  up  Seventh  Avenue  to  Fourteenth 
Street,  they  were  turning  into  it.  The  thunder  of  traffic 
seemed  to  roll  away  from  the  windows  and  doors  of  the 
car,  leaving  the  two  who  sat  within  isolated  in  a  kind  of 
peace. 

As  the  minutes  were  going  by  and  she  gave  him  no 
answer  Bainbridge  too  fell  back  into  the  depths  of  the  car. 
"Then's  there's  no  hope,"  he  said,  quietly. 

"You  must  let  me  think,"  she  murmured,  as  if  to  her- 
self. Suddenly  she  added,  "What  would  you  expect  me 
to  do  if  there  was?" 

He  leaned  forward  again.     "Marry  me." 

"Marry  a  clergyman?    I?" 

"Marry  the  man  you — you  loved.  Wouldn't  that  be 
the  way  to  put  it?" 

"It  might  be,  if — if  we  could  get  things  into  such 
simple  terms.  But  we  can't." 

"Why  can't  we?". 

"I  should  think  you'd  see."  A  few  seconds  went  by 
before  she  added,  "For  me  to  marry  a  clergyman  is  surely 
inconceivable." 

"It  isn't  inconceivable  that  you  should  marry  the  man 
you  love — if  you  do  love  him." 

"And  that  raises  another  question — if  I  do." 

"Do  you  know  that  you  don't?" 

"I  don't  know  anything — of  the  conditions  into  which 
you've  thrown  me.  It's  all  new  to  me,  new  and  strange 
and — and  wonderful." 

"Wonderful?" 

133 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"Yes,  wonderful  in  that  you  could  think  of  it — with 
regard  to  me." 

"Oh,  but  it's  just  the  other  way.  That  you  should 
think  of  it — if  you  do  think  of  it — with  regard  to  me — 

"How .should  I  not  think  of  it?  When  a  man  like  you 
asks  a  woman  like  me  to  be  his  wife,  the  honor  in  itself 
is  so  great — " 

He  leaned  further  forward,  looking  into  her  eyes. 
"Honor?  I  don't  understand." 

"Oh,  well,  you  would  if  you  were  in  my  place."  She 
raised  herself,  and,  drawing  her  hand  from  her  muff,  laid 
it  lightly  on  his.  "I  wish  I  could  tell  you,  dear  friend, 
what  it  means  to  me.  It  means  so  much  that  it  makes 
me  afraid.  It's  like  offering  knighthood  or  a  medal  for 
distinguished  conduct  to  a  man  who's  been  a  coward  in 
the  battle.  He  might  take  it  just  because  he's  been  a 
coward — and  feel  remorse  for  it  afterward.  That's  one 
thing  I  must  try  not  to  do." 

"Why  try  to  do  anything  but  what  you  spoke  of  a  few 
minutes  ago — just  to  love  and  be  loved?" 

Her  smile,  which  merely  dawned  and  faded,  made  him 
feel  young  and  inexperienced.  It  was  the  kind  of  smile 
he  had  seen  only  in  great  portraits,  and  once  or  twice  on 
the  stage,  the  smile  behind  which  lie  memories  beyond 
putting  into  words.  "It's  not  so  simple  as  that.  It 
might  be  as  simple  as  that  with  some  one  else — but  not 
between  you  and  me." 

He  tried  to  meet  what  he  conceived  to  be  her  objections. 
"If  it's  because  we're  not  of  the  same  religion — " 

She  swept  this  aside.  "That's  only  part  of  it,  if  it's  a 
part  at  all.  If  I  were  to — to  do  what  you  want,  I  could 
probably  conform  to  your  wishes,  outwardly  at  least." 

"Then  what  are  you  afraid  of?" 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"I'm  afraid  of  myself.  I'm  afraid  I  may" — she  held 
the  word  in  suspense,  letting  it  flutter  out  softly — "love 
you." 

He  seemed  to  cry  aloud,  not  from  strength  of  voice, 
but  from  the  force  of  his  emotion.  "But  if  you  do — " 

"I  can't  tell.     I  hope  I  don't;  but— but  I  may." 

"Why  do  you  hope  you  don't?" 

"For  every  reason;  for  every  sort  of  reason.  I  feel  as 
if  my  love  would — would  scorch  you — would  burn  you 
up." 

"Couldn't  you  let  me  take  care  of  that?" 

"And  then,"  she  went  on,  ignoring  his  question,  "there's 
something  about  you  that  puzzles  me — that  puts  me  out 
of  all  my  reckonings." 

"What  is  it?    Whatever  it  is,  I'll  give  it  up." 

She  smiled,  not  as  before,  but  sweetly  and  rather  fondly. 
"No,  you  couldn't  give  it  up.  It's — it's  your  goodness." 

"Oh,  but  I'm  not— " 

"No,  of  course;  not  to  yourself.  No  one  ever  is.  But 
it's  the  way  you  seem  to  me;  and  I  can't  tell  you  how  it 
mystifies  me  as  to  all  I  feel  about  you.  You  see,  women 
are  not  used  to  dealing  with  good  men — I  mean  men 
who've  made  a  kind  of  specialty  of  goodness.  They've 
no  preconceived  ideas  to  apply  to  them — nothing  to  go  by. 
I  haven't.  The  fact  that  you're  what  you  are  and  I'm 
what  I  am  reverses  the  usual  position  of  a  woman  and  a 
man.  It  makes  me  so  humble — " 

"Oh,  don't  say  that,"  he  pleaded,  quickly. 

"I  must  say  it.  If  I  don't  you  won't  see  how  confused 
I  am,  nor  what  it  is  that  confuses  me.  It's  like  looking 
at  an  object  that  stands  too  directly  in  the  sun.  You 
can't  see  its  color;  you  can  hardly  see  its  shape.  We 
human  beings  need  shadows  to  show  us  the  true  values." 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"But,  Clorinda,"  he  protested,  "I'm  just  like  any 
other  man." 

"Oh  no,  you're  not."  She  smiled  once  more,  the  fine 
luminous  smile  that  lit  up  the  delicate  beauty  of  her  face 
with  tenderness  and  intelligence.  "You're  far  from  being 
like  other  men.  You've  a  whole  range  of  thought  which 
most  men  don't  possess;  you  speak  a  different  language." 
She  surprised  him  by  going  on  to  say,  almost  without 
change  of  tone:  "Would  you  mind  getting-  out  when 
there's  a  convenient  opportunity?  With  all  you've  been 
saying — and  what  we  went  through  before  that  with  the 
children — I'm  rather — rather  overwhelmed." 

"I'll  do  anything  you  wish.  But  you'll  let  me  come 
to-morrow?" 

She  reflected.  "No,  not  to-morrow.  It's  Christmas 
Day  and  you'll  have  your  services.  Then  you'll  be 
dining  with  the  Galloways.  I  shall  be  dining  with  the 
Colfax  Poles.  I  was  to  have  dined  with  Leslie  and  Maggie, 
but  when  they  went  away  Colfax  and  Julia  were  good 
enough  to  ask  me.  Not  to-morrow,  then — but  soon." 

"How  soon?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  that.  Probably  very  soon.  When 
I've  had  a  little  time  to  myself  and  got  used  to  an  idea 
that  seems  so  impossible  to  me  now — " 

"And  I  may  call  you  Clorinda,  mayn't  I?" 

"I'd  rather  you'd  call  me  what  you  like — without  ask- 
ing my  permission.  I  don't  seem  to  have  any  permission 
to  give.  With  regard  to  you" — again  the  sweet  smile 
seemed  to  him  what  dawn  is  to  summer — "with  regard 
to  you  I'm  only  like  a  beggar  at  the  gates.  Do  just  as 
you  please." 

"Then  I  shall  call  you  Clorinda — but  only  when  we're 
alone — yet." 

136 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"Yes;  perhaps  that  will  be  better."  She  began  taking 
.  off  the  glove  of  her  left  hand,  speaking  while  she  did  so. 
"To-morrow  is  Christmas  Day,  and  I've  sent  you  some 
of  the  new  books.  No,  don't  thank  me.  I  wanted  you 
to  see  that  I  thought  of  you — and  that  I  was  grateful. 
But  it  isn't  enough — now."  She  drew  off  a  ring.  "Here; 
take  this."  She  slipped  it  into  his  hand.  "It's  only  a 
ring — any  ring.  No  one  gave  it  to  me;  there's  no  senti- 
ment attached  to  it;  I  bought  it  myself.  But  I  want  you 
to  have  it."  As  he  bent  over  it  and  pressed  the  half -hoop 
of  diamonds  to  his  lips,  she  went  on  with  feverish  rapidity : 
"It  doesn't  mean  anything — that  is,  no  more  than  just 
to  mark  your  extraordinary  goodness.  Do  you  remember 
my  saying  that  I  wanted  to  be  put  back  where  I  was 
before?  No,  perhaps  not,"  she  continued,  as  he  looked 
up  and  shook  his  head.  "But  I  did  say  it;  and  I  feel 
now  as  if — as  if  it  had  been  done.  Whatever  happens 
after  this — whatever  decision  I  come  to — the  ring  will 
tell  you  that — that  something  seems  to  have  rolled  away 
from  me — that  at  last  I've  been  set  free."  With  a  sudden 
pressure  of  the  brake  the  car  stopped  near  the  curb. 
"Don't  you  think  you  could  get  out  now?" 

It  was  only  after  kissing  her  bared  hand  rapturously 
that  Bainbridge  found  himself  on  the  pavement,  borne 
along  in  the  Christmas  crowd.  He  was  dazed  and  ecstatic. 
He  would  have  felt  himself  waking  from  a  dream  had  it 
net  been  for  the  ring,  with  its  diamond  edges,  cutting 

into  his  clenched  hand. 
10 


CHAPTER  X 

BUT  to  fill  in,  or  rather  to  reconstruct,  his  portrait  of 
Clorinda  was  not,  when  Bainbridge  came  to  do  it, 
as  easy  as  he  thought  it  ought  to  be.  The  figure  whom 
he  had  worshiped  as  a  saintly  image  in  stained  glass 
had  blurred  the  outlines  in  waking  into  life.  She  had 
both  disturbed  his  vision  and  rendered  it  more  marvel- 
ously  beautiful. 

That  is,  where  he  had  beheld  an  ideal,  woven  of  dreams 
and  magic  tissues,  there  began  to  emerge  a  woman  who 
beset  his  senses  because  she  was  made  of  flesh  and  blood. 
Moreover  he  was  conscious  that  in  ways  he  couldn't 
understand  she  outflanked  his  mental  range.  Her  very 
willingness  to  put  herself  at  his  feet  was  but  the  sign  of 
something  great  in  her;  her  habit  of  referring  to  memo- 
ries between  them  of  things  of  which  there  were  no  memo- 
ries might  have  harked  back  to  a  common  life  together 
before  either  of  them  was  born. 

And  yet  when,  a  few  days  after  Christmas,  she  sent  for 
him,  it  was  to  show  herself  in  an  aspect  in  which  he  had 
not  seen  her  heretofore — simple  and  domestic.  Conscious- 
ly or  not  she  had  chosen  the  early  part  of  the  forenoon 
as  best  suited  to  her  purpose.  While  he  waited  in  the 
library  he  heard  her  voice  in  the  tiny  room,  a  kind  of 
office,  that  opened  from  it,  where  she  was  evidently  talk- 
ing to  the  cook. 

138 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"So  that's  understood,  Catherine.  Not  quite  so  much 
salt  in  the  soups — and  the  next  time  we  have  an  omelette 
I'll  come  to  the  kitchen  myself  and  show  you  how  to 
make  it." 

Bainbridge  could  not  have  said  why  these  words  should 
have  been  consoling  to  him;  but  a  sense  of  consolation 
followed  him  when  he  was  shown  into  the  little  room, 
where  he  found  her  seated  at  a  desk  which  combined  a 
suggestion  of  business  with  French  eighteenth-century 
elegance.  A  large  check-book  lay  open  before  her,  and 
a  pile  of  envelopes  stamped  for  the  post  stood  neatly 
beside  it.  Everything  stood  neatly.  Among  the  papers 
there  was  no  disorder;  not  a  pen  nor  a  pencil  was  dis- 
placed. He  could  see  her  as  one  of  these  women  who 
cannot  move  without  producing  an  effect  of  the  finished, 
of  the  exquisite. 

He  received  the  same  impression  from  her  dress.  Dimly 
he  had  expected  to  find  her  shimmering  in  green  and 
silver,  with  emeralds  and  diamonds  round  her  neck — or 
in  one  or  another  of  the  imposing  robes  she  had  worn  at 
their  previous  meetings.  Nothing  could  have  been 
plainer  than  the  short,  black  skirt  of  this  morning,  nor 
the  long,  open,  white  collar,  a  loose  frill  of  lawn,  that 
descended  to  the  bust,  where  three  large  silver  buttons, 
each  carved  as  a  different  flower,  formed  her  only  orna- 
ment. Her  hair,  dressed  low  on  the  neck,  displayed  the 
shapeliness  of  the  head;  on  her  fingers  she  wore  nothing 
but  her  wedding-ring. 

She  greeted  him  with  gentle  familiarity,  without  rising 
from  the  desk.  In  bowing  over  her  hand  and  pressing  it 
to  his  lips  he  was,  though  he  scarcely  knew  it  as  yet,  doing 
homage  to  this  new  conception  of  her  as  a  housewife. 
The  fact  that  she  could  make  an  omelette  and  pay  her 

139 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

bills  by  check  brought  her  down  wholly  from  the  stained 
glass  and  within  the  circle  of  women  he  might  marry. 

Her  first  words,  too,  were  a  relief  to  him.  "Do  sit 
down.  I'm  so  glad  you  were  able  to  come.  I  wanted  to 
ask  you  about  these  attacks  on  Leslie  and  Maggie  Pal- 
liser." 

Having  been  half  afraid  of  some  such  high  note  as  that 
^.  on  which  they  had  parted  a  few  days  earlier,  he  found  the 
tone  deliciously  confidential  and  matter-of-fact.  It  was 
suited  to  the  morning,  to  the  cozy  little  room  with  its  fire 
on  the  hearth,  its  miniatures  and  figurines,  and  the 
crisp,  snowy  air  outside. 

He  seated  himself  in  an  arm-chair  which  relieved  any 
feeling  of  over-fastidiousness  in  the  surroundings  by 
being  homey  and  worn.  It  was  not  easy  to  bring  his 
mind  to  Leslie  and  Maggie  and  their  affairs;  but  he  saw 
it  as  the  tactful  thing  to  do.  "I  didn't  know  they  were 
still  going  on — the  attacks." 

"Yes;  there's  another  article  this  week.  It  isn't 
worth  while  looking  at  it  if  you  haven't  seen  it  already; 
but  I  wanted  to  ask  you  if  you  can  think  of  any  way  by 
which  they  might  be  stopped." 

He  reflected:  "I  don't  know  of  any  way;  but  we  might 
find  one." 

"I  talked  to  Endsleigh  Jarrott  about  it  yesterday.  He 
said  it  was  difficult.  He  didn't  admit  it  in  so  many 
words,  but  I  think  he  tried  it  once  when  there  had  been 
a  lot  about  Claribel  and  a  Mr.  Searle.  What  he  said  was 
that  there  was  no  one  to  get  at  or  to  whom  you  could 
appeal.  There  seemed  to  be  no  real  agent  in  New  York 
and  no  one  who  would  call  himself  responsible.  He'd 
found  it  like  fighting  something  in  the  air;  there  were 
no  weapons  by  which  you  could  strike  at  it." 

140 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

"So  long  as  there's  a  public  for  that  sort  of  thing — " 
he  began,  musingly. 

"That's  the  curious  part  of  it,  that  there's  not  only  a 
public,  but  that  it's  largely  made  up  of  the  people  whose 
hearts  are  torn  out,  as  you  might  say,  and  sold  in  the 
shambles.  Endsleigh  and  Claribel,  for  instance,  who 
were  almost  separated  by  it — there  was  some  truth  in 
the  stories! — are  still  its  regular  readers." 

"And  there  generally  is  some  truth  in  the  stories. 
That's  another  queer  thing.  Whoever  the  responsible 
people  are,  you  can't  often  accuse  them  of  lying.  Take 
the  case  of  Leslie  and  Maggie.  Neither  you  nor  I,  who 
know  them  so  well,  had  any  idea  that  there  were  differ- 
ences between  them  till  they  were  brought  up  in  this 
way." 

He  saw  in  her  eyes  that  gleam  which  he  had  often  com- 
pared to  light  moving  under  water.  "I  had,"  she  said, 
simply.  Unnecessarily  she  straightened  the  pile  of 
stamped  envelopes,  the  inkstand,  the  pen-tray,  the  small 
decorative  objects  on  her  desk,  as  she  added:  "At  least 
I  knew  that  Leslie  wasn't  happy.  I  didn't  know  that 
Maggie — that  Maggie  had  noticed  anything  till  she  told 
us  the  other  day." 

Her  embarrassment,  the  tinge  of  color  in  her  cheeks, 
conveyed  nothing  to  him  but  a  natural  reluctance  in 
speaking  of  the  troubles  of  her  friends.  "I  hadn't  the 
faintest  suspicion  of  anything,"  he  declared,  frankly, 
"till  I  chanced  on  it  in  that  paper.  Even  then  I  wasn't 
afraid  of  it,  except  in  as  far  as  Maggie  might  believe  it." 

"That's  all  there  is  really  to  be  afraid  of."  She  ex- 
plained further:  "Nobody  we  care  about  would  attach 
importance  to  the  matter.  It's  curious,  the  attitude  people 
take  toward  that  sort  of  thing.  They  love  to  read  it; 

141 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

but  they're  neither  shocked  nor  scandalized  by  what  it 
tells  them,  and  hardly  disapprove.  Then,  too,  as  this 
particular  publication  never  mentions  any  one  but  the 
people  most  in  view,  it's  considered  almost  an  honor  to  get 
into  it,  no  matter  how  you  may  be  pilloried.  I've  known 
women  in  New  York — women  you'd  expect  to  be  quite 
above  that  queer  strain  of  vanity — who've  been  delighted 
to  be  noticed  by  it,  even  when  it's  been  only  in  the  way 
of  some  uncomplimentary  remark  about  their  ages.  It's 
one  of  those  odd  American  weaknesses  that  you  don't 
find  anywhere  else.  But,  as  you  say,  the  trouble  lies  in 
the  effect  on  Maggie." 

He  spoke  with  some  perplexity.  "  Up  to  now  I  thought 
I  understood  her.  I  find,  however,  that — " 

"That  you  don't,"  she  broke  in,  with  animation. 
"No,  you  wouldn't.  Probably  no  man  could.  It's  only 
a  woman  who  understands  another  woman's  desire  to 
dominate." 

"Oh,  I  understand  that  well  enough — on  Maggie's 
part." 

"Yes,  to  the  extent  that  you  see  her  as  an  intensely 
dominating  creature.  That,  of  course,  is  her  idiosyncrasy. 
Every  woman  isn't  like  that.  But  every  woman  does 
want  to  rule  the  heart  of  the  man  she  loves.  She  wants 
to  feel  it  hers — that  no  other  woman  has  a  part  of  it. 
Maggie  may  exaggerate  this  because  of  her  exaggerated 
sense  of  possession  in  general;  and  yet  it's  fundamental 
to  us  all." 

"  If  she'd  only  gone  another  way  to  work  with  Leslie— 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I'm  afraid  he  would  have  eluded 
her  in  any  case.  No  woman  would  ever" — her  color 
deepened — "would  ever  hold  him  long.  That  may  be 
because  of  the  complex  feminine  streak  in  himself.  It's 

142 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

the  big,  simple,  masculine  men  who  are  always  the  most 
faithful." 

Bainbridge  wondered  how  in  this  listing  she  rated 
himself,  but  he  said,  merely:  "Anyhow,  I  hope  this  trip 
to  White  Sulphur  Springs  may  bring  them  together." 

"It  won't  bring  them  together;  but  it  may  keep  them 
from  breaking  further  apart.  They'll  never  be  brought 
together  till  Maggie  thinks  she's  got  him  under  her 
thumb;  and  she'll  never  get  him  under  her  thumb  till 
Leslie  feels  himself  free.  When  he  does  that — if  she'd 
let  him  do  that — he  might  come  into  subjection  of  his 
own  accord.  What  these  paragraphs  do  is  to  keep  open 
the  wound  in  their  relations  by  stabbing  at  it.  If  we 
could  only  stop  them  there'd  be  a  source  of  irritation  the 
less." 

He  found  it  happiness  to  sit  talking  with  her  in  this 
intimate  way — such  happiness  that  the  discussion  meant 
more  than  the  object.  His  remarks  were  made  in  that 
manner  he  had  acquired  since  knowing  her,  a  manner  by 
which  he  could  answer  her  questions  and  put  forth  his 
opinions  quite  lucidly,  while  really  thinking  of  her,  of 
the  turn  of  her  head,  of  the  delicate  molding  of  her  wrist, 
of  the  distinction  of  her  utterance,  of  the  quiet  grace  of 
her  movements.  He  could,  therefore,  not  have  traced 
the  transitions  by  which  after  a  few  minutes  he  heard 
her  speaking  of  Pansy  Wilde. 

"I've  had  time  to  think  it  well  over,  and  to  know  just 
what  I  should  like  to  be  allowed  to  do.  If  they'd  let  me 
take  her  I  should  make  her,  at  first,  a  sort  of  assistant  to 
my  own  maid — to  do  sewing  and  mending  and  that  kind 
of  thing.  That  would  give  her  a  comfortable  home  and 
bring  her  right  under  my  own  eye.  I've  talked  to  Al- 
phonsine  about  her,  and  got  her  sympathy.  As  a  French- 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

woman  she's  already  interested  in  the  heroine  of  what 
she  calls  a  drame  passionel,  however  pitiful.  After  that 
we  could  see." 

"You  could  see—?" 

"How  far  we  could  go  and  what  we  could  do.  If  the 
little  thing  was  happy  with  me — and  I  think  I  could 
promise  you  that,  without  spoiling  her  or  attempting 
anything  foolish,  I  could  make  her  happy — but  if  she  was 
happy  with  me,  we  could  then  decide  on  what  would  be 
best  for  her — whether  more  training  of  a  domestic  kind, 
or  more  education,  or  what." 

He  thought  it  right  to  warn  her.  "You'd  probably 
meet  with  all  sorts  of  disillusions  and  disappointments  in 
Pansy  herself." 

"Oh,  I  know  that;  but  it  would  be  part  of  my  work 
to  wrestle  with  them,  to  circumvent  them,  wouldn't  it? 
You  see  I  don't  want  to  go  into  this  thing  just  senti- 
mentally or  as  a  fad;  I  want  to  give  myself  to  the 
healing  and  restoration  of  this  child  as  seriously  as  Miss 
Macy  gave  herself  up  to  teaching  Helen  Keller.  I  dare 
say  it  may  seem  to  you  a  great  deal  for  one  when  there 
are  so  many — " 

He  denied  this  with  a  shake  of  the  head. 

"But  I  feel  equal  to  it  in  the  case  of  one,  when  more 
would  frighten  me." 

"It  seems  to  me  all  you  should  attempt." 

"  For  the  present,  at  any  rate;  only  that  there  is  some- 
thing else.  You  say  that  Pansy  has  a  widowed  mother 
and  some  brothers  and  sisters." 

He  gave  her  the  details  of  the  family,  adding  that 
since  the  girl  had  fled  from  home,  and  had  later  been 
brought  into  court,  the  mother  had  not  seen  her. 

"  Then  I  should  try  to  bring  them  together.  I  shouldn't 

144 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

try  more  than  that.  This  would  give  me  a  chance  to 
see — to  see  what  I  could  do  to  help  the  mother — and  to — 
to  educate  the  other  children,  who  must  be  young,  since 
Pansy  is  the  eldest."  She  clasped  her  hands  and  looked 
at  him  rather  piteously.  "Oh,  don't  laugh  at  me,  or 
think  me  presuming  or  over-ambitious.  You  see  I'm — 
I'm  quite  well  off."  She  named  the  approximate  amount 
of  her  income,  going  on  hurriedly  to  say:  "That's  no 
enormous  wealth  according  to  the  standards  of  New 
York;  but  it's  more  than  enough  for  one,  and  I  hardly 
ever  give  any  of  it  away.  Giving  away  money  generally 
seems  to  me  so  aimless,  and  so — so  futile." 

He  responded  dreamily  because  each  minute  seemed  to 
bring  him  some  new  revelation  of  her  character.  "I'm 
beginning  to  think  it  is  futile  in  the  majority  of  cases.  Our 
philanthropies  deal  largely  with  effects  rather  than  with 
causes,  and  so  our  generosity  becomes  a  mere  pouring  of 
money  into  bags  with  holes." 

"To  me,"  she  declared,  "it  seems  so  cold,  so  lifeless,  to 
give  money  and  not — how  shall  I  say? — not  accompany 
it  with  oneself.  Do  you  see  what  I  mean?" 

"I  think  I  do." 

"You  subscribe  a  hundred,  or  a  thousand,  or  ten 
thousand  dollars  to  a  cause,  and  it  remains  just  a  cause — 
remote — impersonal.  You  don't  see  what  becomes  of 
your  money;  you've  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Other  people 
spend  it,  whether  usefully  or  not  you've  no  means  of 
knowing.  It  often  happens  that  you  learn  in  the  end 
that  it's  been  wasted.  But  whichever  way  it  is,  you're 
helpless;  you're  ignored ;  you're  shut  out.  I've  no  doubt 
that  in  many  cases  it  has  to  be  like  that ;  but  I'm  only 
trying  to  explain  to  you  that  for  me  it's  not  generally 
satisfactory." 

US 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"I  quite  understand." 

She  smiled  on  him  with  what  he  considered  an  adorable 
humility.  "You  see,  I  want  to — to  go  with  the  money; 
to  have  the  money  go  with  me,  and  not  instead  of  me.  I 
want  to  know — to  make  it  not  merely  a  dead  gift,  but  a 
kind  of — a  kind  of  expression  of  myself.  Oh,  I  dare  say 
I'm  very  foolish — but  it's  the  way  I  feel — the  way  I've 
always  felt — and  so,  if  you  could  help  me  again,  as  you've 
helped  me  in  so  many  ways  already — " 

Fortunately  the  subject  was  one  he  could  discuss  with 
greater  knowledge  than  the  regulation  of  journalism.  He 
told  her  of  the  different  authorities  who  would  have  the 
matter  in  their  hands.  There  would  be  the  judge  of  the 
Juvenile  Court  who  had  sent  Pansy  Wilde  to  the  House 
of  Comfort;  there  would  be  the  directors  of  the  House 
itself;  there  would  be  Miss  Downie;  there  would  be 
Pansy's  mother;  last  of  all  there  would  be  Pansy  herself. 
On  Pansy  herself  he  dwelt  at  some  length,  painting  her 
in  tolerably  dark  colors.  She  was  likely  to  prove  rebel- 
lious, refractory.  You  couldn't  always  judge  by  refine- 
ment of  manner  and  dark  violet  eyes.  In  spite  of  these 
reassuring  indications  the  heart  could  easily  be  wilful. 
If  Pansy  hadn't  been  wilful  she  wouldn't  be  where  she 
was.  Miss  Higgins  had  given  her  a  good  home,  and  yet — 

Clorinda  broke  in,  pityingly.  "Oh,  that  poor  thing!  I 
know  she's  a  good  woman  and — and  harmless;  but  I 
can't  imagine  any  eager  young  girl  being  influenced  by 
her,  one  way  or  another.  You  see,  my  interest  in  the 
matter  is  not  hi  Pansy  Wilde  herself;  it's  in  trying  to 
help  any  one — any  one — who's  gone  wrong  in  this  particu- 
lar way.  This  child  appeals  to  me  only  because  she's  at 
the  beginning  of  her  troubles,  and  her  experience  has  been 
so  tragic." 

146 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"That's  true  of  them  all.  Each  one  of  them  has  a 
tragedy  behind  her." 

"Quite  so;  and  if  I  hadn't  seen  Pansy  and  felt  drawn 
to  her,  I  could  take  almost  any  one  of  them  at  random." 
She  passed  in  her  elliptical  way  to  another  phase  of  the 
subject.  "You  don't  object  to  my  making  the  attempt, 
do  you?" 

"Of  course  not;  it's  only  that,  knowing  the  type  of 
girl  better  than  you  do,  I'm  afraid  you  may  find  the  whole 
thing  discouraging." 

"Do  I  strike  you  as  a  person  who  would  shrink  from 
discouragement  ?' ' 

"No;  but  you  might  easily  be  baffled  by  Pansy's  own 
inclinations.  She  might  not  be  happy  in  your  house,  as 
she'd  think  of  happiness,  and  then — " 

"She'd  be  free.  I  should  never  attempt  to  hold  her  by 
force.  If  being  a  friend  to  her,  a  sister,  didn't  win  her,  I 
should  admit  that  I  had  failed." 

"And  then,"  he  began,  with  an  apologetic  smile,  "one 
has  to  take  into  consideration  the  fact  that — that  you 
yourself  might  tire  of  the  experiment — " 

With  one  hand  on  her  desk,  and  the  other  hanging  over 
the  back  of  the  chair,  she  straightened  herself  royally. 
"Then  you  do  think  I'm  going  into  it  as  a  fad.  I'm  the 
idle  rich  woman  seeking  a  new  pastime.  You  don't 
know  me." 

He  seized  the  opening  to  say:  "I  know  you  so  well 
that  I  want  to  know  you  better.  Isn't  that  the  substance 
of  what  I  said  the  other  afternoon?" 

"That's  exactly  the  substance — for  the  time  being. 
Suppose — "  she  began  again,  slowly,  with  meticulous 
care,  to  rearrange  the  objects  on  the  desk — "suppose  we — 
we  left  it  at  that — for  now?" 

H7 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"You  mean — left  it  all  in  the  air?" 

"That's  a  very  good  expression.  If  it  were  all  in  the 
air  we  should  live  in  it — breathe  it  in — get  used  to  it — 
or  know  whether  we  could  ever  get  used  to  it  or  not." 

"But  I  know  that  already." 

"Oh  no,  you  don't.  This  is  one  of  the  rare  subjects  on 
which  I'm  wiser  than  you.  Believe  me,  you're  not  used 
to  it.  You  see  a  vision  in  the  clouds  which  you'd  like  to 
bring  down  to  earth;  but  you  don't  know  what  it  would 
be  like  if  you  got  it  there.  Neither  of  us  knows." 

"And  you  suggest — ?" 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  smile  in  which  he  found  a 
mingling  of  tenderness  and  radiance.  "Isn't  it  very  nice 
as  it  is — like  this?  You're  free  to  come  and  go,  and  to 
know  that  we  have  this  secret  between  us — while  we  both 
test  the  possibilities — " 

"And  would  it  be  like  that  for  long?" 

The  smile  faded.  If  her  gravity  did  not  become  a 
frown  it  was  because  of  her  inexpressible  gentleness.  "No; 
and  it  needn't — it  needn't  be  like  that  at  all,  if  you'd  be 
content  with  the  answer — " 

He  hastened  to  interrupt.  "I  shall  not  be  content  with 
any  answer  that  doesn't  give  me  the  thing  I  most  want 
in  the  world." 

"If  the  thing  you  most  want  in  the  world  is — is  what 
you  asked  me  the  other  afternoon,  then  I'm  not  sure 
whether  I  can  ever  give  it  to  you  or  not.  As  I  said  then — 
I  might."  But  if  so,  you  must — you  must  give  me  time. 
If  you  can't  do  that — " 

"Oh,  but  I  can,"  he  declared,  eagerly.  "I  want  you 
to  have  all  the  time  you  need;  and  in  the  mean  while — " 

"In  the  mean  while,  you  mustn't  urge  me.  You  must 
let  me  feel  free.  You  must  feel  free  yourself.  If  it  should 

148 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

come  to  you  that — that  you'd  made  a  mistake  in  asking 
a  woman  like  me  to  be  your  wife — " 

"Oh,  don't!"  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  edge  of  the 
cry  was  tempered  by  a  smile,  the  protest  in  it  was  un- 
mistakable. 

Her  own  smile  returned,  less  radiant,  it  seemed  to  him, 
than  a  few  minutes  earlier,  but  more  tender.  "Then  I 
won't.  That  part  of  it  is  over.  I  shall  not  go  back  to  it 
again.  I  see — I  see  that  to — to  keep  referring  to  it  might 
easily  become — become  intolerable.  Besides,"  she  stum- 
bled on,  brokenly — "and  this  is  one  of  the  most  wonderful 
things  about  it — the  fact  that  you  can  dismiss  it  from 
your  mind  makes  it  possible  for  me  to  dismiss  it  from 
mine.  I  realized  that  the  other  evening  in  the  car.  I 
said  so,  didn't  I?  And  I've  felt  it  ever  since — as  if  some- 
thing had  been  rolled  away,  as  if  a  weight  had  been  taken 
from  my  heart."  She  went  on  so  rapidly  that  he  had  not 
time  to  be  bewildered.  "But  now  we  understand  each 
other,  don't  we?  We'll  let  this — this  great  thing  be. 
We'll  just  live.  We've  plenty  to  do — things  that  will 
bring  us  together.  You'll  come  and  see  me  whenever 
you  like — and  whenever  I  want  you  I'll  write  or  call  you 
up — and  if  at  the  end  of  a  few  weeks  we  see — " 

He  felt  it  to  his  advantage  to  rise.  "Let  us  have  the 
few  weeks  first,"  he  said,  hastily.  "  Don't  let  us  prophesy 
or  make  arrangements.  As  you  say,  let  us  live— with 
this  great  thing,  as  you  call  it,  in  the  air— between  us—- 
to breathe  in." 


CHAPTER  XI 
x  t 

ON  the  basis  of  this  pact  Bainbridge  passed  through 
a  number  of  weeks  which  remained  in  his  memory 
as  a  period  of  poignant,  high-strung  happiness.  Many 
factors  entered  into  it,  factors  through  which  his  personal 
aims  were  in  a  measure  carried  out  by  a  great  impersonal 
striving. 

It  was  that  moment  in  the  winter  of  1915  when  America 
awoke  with  amazement  and  pain  to  the  fact  that  the 
world  was  in  agony  and  calling  on  her  for  aid.  It  was 
true  that  aid  had  been  given  in  the  previous  summer  and 
autumn,  but  as  to  the  victims  of  a  vast  catastrophe, 
another  and  mightier  Messina  or  St.  Pierre.  The  war 
was  to  last  a  few  weeks,  or  a  few  months  at  most.  It  had 
been  supposed  that  the  need  once  met  would  be  over. 
But  the  dawn  of  that  new  year  was  also  the  dawn  of  a 
new  phase  of  perception.  It  began  to  be  seen  that  the 
need  was  not  only  urgent,  but  that  it  would  remain  urgent. 
Once  met,  it  had  to  be  met  again;  being  met  again,  it 
had  to  be  met  again.  Pain  presented  herself  as  the  com- 
panion figure  to  War  and  spoke  in  words  of  even  more 
imperative  command.  Pain  brought  her  sister  Want. 
Pain  and  Want  together  lifted  up  their  voices  in  a  cry 
such  as  no  man  living  had  ever  heard  the  like  of.  Bain- 
bridge  was  one  of  the  millions  of  his  fellow-countrymen 
who  listened  and  were  thrilled. 

150 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

As  a  young  man  with  a  young  man's  energies  he  at  first 
took  the  call  to  be  one  for  his  physical  strength.  There 
were  ways  in  which  he  could  serve  that  would  be  quite 
in  keeping  with  his  spiritual  office.  In  the  capacity  of 
ambulance-driver  or  stretcher-bearer  his  spiritual  office 
would,  in  fact,  find  wider  opportunities.  Had  he  been 
able,  during  this  stage  of  the  excitement,  to  wrench  him- 
self free  from  his  duties,  not  even  his  love  for  Clorinda 
Gildersleeve  would  have  held  him  in  the  humdrum  round. 
The  need  of  American  men,  of  American  money,  having 
presented  itself  flamingly  in  the  early  days  of  that  new 
year,  it  was  with  difficulty  that  he  kept  himself  from 
leaving  all  to  answer  the  appeal. 

Since  there  were  reasons  why  calmer  counsels  should 
prevail,  he  did  what  he  could  at  home.  Within  a  few  weeks 
his  work  transformed  itself  from  the  parochial  to  the 
universal.  From  ministering  to  a  decent  class  of  more  or 
less  fashionable  folk,  with  sins  and  sorrows  not  less  acute 
because  they  were  those  of  people  of  means,  he  found 
himself  a  champion  of  men.  New  York  shriveled  up; 
Fifth  Avenue  became  a  thread;  his  thoughts  were  daily 
and  hourly  with  men  and  women  he  never  knew,  in 
desolated  towns  he  had  rarely,  if  ever,  heard  the  names 
of.  Never  in  his  life  had  he  been  so  active.  He  was  on 
all  kinds  of  committees;  he  addressed  all  kinds  of  meet- 
ings; in  spite  of  his  views  as  to  the  futility  of  giving  away 
money,  he  poured  his  means  into  all  kinds  of  funds.  He 
came  into  view  as  one  of  the  apostles  of  a  new  world- 
brotherhood,  which  was  perhaps  the  more  startlingly  a 
brotherhood  because  guilty  of  the  crime  of  fratricide. 

He  was  at  that  time  in  his  thirty-third  year,  and  as 
fully  at  home  in  his  surroundings  as  if  he  had  been  born 
and  bred  in  New  York.  From  New  York,  too,  he  was 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

getting  that  notice  which  intelligence  and  single-hearted- 
ness seldom  fail  to  exact  from  the  crowd.  His  slight 
figure  with  its  rapid  movements,  and  glowing  face  with 
clean-shaven,  somewhat  ascetic,  and  distinctly  aristo- 
cratic features,  was  easily  recognized  in  the  streets,  and 
his  name  was  often  in  print.  Men  approved  of  him  soberly, 
while  women  commended  his  small,  keen  blue  eyes  that 
looked  right  through  you,  and  thick  fair  hair  in  which 
they  saw  a  ripple  like  that  made  by  a  summer  wind  in 
passing  over  a  grain-field,  as  helps  in  treading  the  narrow 
way.  Of  such  comments  as  these,  however,  or  of  any 
comments  at  all,  he  himself  was  scarcely  more  aware 
than  a  locomotive  of  the  opinions  of  the  passengers  it 
drags  along. 

For  in  his  present  activities  he  had  the  joy  of  drawing 
nearer  to  Clorinda  and  of  seeing  her  in  other  lights.  It 
was  one  of  his  first  discoveries  that  in  the  new  movements 
of  help  she  took  a  part  that  surprised  him.  She  might 
have  been  classed  among  the  many  American  women  who 
had  waked  from  a  state  of  idleness  and  helplessness. 
With  the  needs  of  other  countries  reacting  on  the  needs 
of  their  own,  there  seemed  to  be  born  in  them  a  new 
consciousness.  The  sense  of  being  useless  with  which 
she  had  returned  from  Europe  having  passed,  she  became 
suddenly  energetic  and  effective.  What  she  lacked  in  ex- 
perience she  made  up  by  intelligence.  While  keeping  to 
the  background  in  the  undertakings  to  which  she  lent  her 
efforts  or  her  name,  she  came,  nevertheless,  to  be  recog- 
nized as  both  fertile  in  suggestion  and  whole-hearted  in 
devotion. 

To  Bainbridge  she  appeared  also  to  be  rested.  Some- 
thing he  could  only  call  life-weariness  had  dropped  away 
from  her.  One  might  have  said  that  after  long  and  fruit- 

152 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

less  seeking  she  was  satisfied.  Satisfaction  brought  with 
it  a  peace  which  showed  itself  not  only  in  her  manner, 
but  in  her  voice  and  countenance.  It  was  impossible  for 
him  to  reckon  it  as  other  than  the  peace  that  springs  of 
love. 

So  throughout  January  they  worked  together  to  get 
money,  food,  clothes,  doctors,  nurses,  and  hospital  neces- 
sities. It  was  work  of  such  immediate  pressure  as,  for 
the  minute  at  least,  to  make  their  more  intimate  desires 
seem  far  away.  They  did  not  forget  them  or  ignore  them; 
they  only  allowed  them  to  recede.  They  allowed  them 
to  recede,  but  to  loom  up  in  the  distance,  splendid,  noble, 
hedging  them  round,  as  the  hills  stand  about  Jerusalem. 
It  was  characteristic  of  Bainbridge  that  his  courtship 
should  be  conducted  through  what  he  could  do  for  others; 
it  was  equally  characteristic  of  Clorinda  that  she  should 
accept  his  approaches  in  this  way,  when  she  might  have 
shrunk  from  methods  more  direct.  All  through  January 
their  references  to  the  "great  thing"  between  them  were 
by  implication  only;  though  each  knew  of  the  other  that 
it  was  never  absent  from  the  consciousness. 

And  yet  Bainbridge  was  not  so  immersed  in  new  under- 
takings as  to  forget  the  marital  rescue  of  Leslie  and 
Maggie  Palliser,  or  the  social  salvation  of  Pansy  Wilde. 

With  regard  to  the  former  he  could  only  feel  his  way. 
When  the  partially  estranged  couple  returned  from  White 
Sulphur  Springs  he  did  his  best  to  divert  them  from 
mutual  reproach  by  engaging  their  services  on  behalf  of 
the  suffering.  Though  by  this  means  he  occupied  their 
time,  he  could  do  little  to  diminish  the  sense  of  irritation 
which  each  produced  on  the  other. 

"  So  long  as  Maggie  accepts  as  gospel  everything  printed 
by  that  rotten  sheet,"  Leslie  declared,  doggedly,  "it's  no 

it  i53 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

use  for  me  to  take  any  steps  toward  a  reconciliation.  We 
live  in  the  same  house;  I  dare  say  we  shall  go  on  doing  so; 
I  make  the  concession  for  the  children's  sake.  Otherwise 
I  can  think  of  no  greater  happiness  than  to  be  quit  of  this 
damned  big  establishment — and  on  my  own  again." 

"So  long  as  there's  another  woman  in  Leslie's  life," 
Maggie  insisted,  with  sorrowful  determination,  "you 
needn't  speak  on  his  behalf.  I  did  what  you  asked  me  to, 
Arthur;  I  went  away  with  him.  But  I  couldn't  go  so 
far  as  not  to  see  the  papers,  and — well,  we  don't  gain 
anything  by  talking.  When  you  think  of  what  Leslie 
owes  to  me,  the  least,  the  very  least,  you  might  have  looked 
for  was  that  he  should  have  remained  faithful.  I  don't 
say,"  she  added,  with  her  gasping  sob,  "that  he  should 
have  loved  me;  but  between  that  and  spending  my 
money  on  other  women  there's  a  difference." 

"My  God,  Arthur,"  Leslie  exclaimed,  on  another  occa- 
sion, "it's  the  money.  If  I  had  two  thousand  dollars  a 
year  of  my  very  own  I  could  swallow  everything.  I 
could  pay  for  my  clothes  at  least.  But  I  don't  make  that 
since  I  gave  up  my  work  at  Columbia,  either  by  my 
lectures  or  my  books — no  one  wants  to  pay  for  political 
economy! — and  so  I  have  to  take  her  cheeks.  When 
she  gives  me  one  I  feel  as  if  I  was  handling  a  live  snake; 
but  I've  got  to  do  it." 

"You  haven't  got  to  do  it  in  that  way,"  Bainbridge 
endeavored  to  explain.  "Between  a  man  and  his  wife 
there  is,  properly  speaking,  no  such  thing  as  money. 
Money  is  only  a  counter.  It  stands  for  something  not 
itself.  When  you've  got  that,  old  boy — " 

"Ah,  but  when  you  haven't?" 

"You  set  to  work  to  acquire  it.  One  can,  you  know. 
Once  you've  done  it,  it  won't  matter  whether  the  money- 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

was  originally  yours  or  Maggie's,  because  that  aspect  of 
the  thing  will  have  lost  its  significance." 

"It's  easy  to  say  that  when  you  don't  know  the  humili- 
ation." 

"If  you  want  to  be  free  of  the  humiliation,  Leslie,  old 
chap,  you  must  put  yourself  where  it  can't  reach  you." 

To  Maggie  he  said:  "You  see,  Maggie,  you  detract 
from  your  own  personality  by  laying  so  much  stress  on 
mere  cash.  You  turn  yourself  into  dollars  and  cents,  and 
then  wonder  why  Leslie  doesn't  go  into  raptures  over  the 
sum  total." 

"I  turn  myself  into  the  thing  Leslie  cares  most  about." 

"If  he  cared  most  about  it  he'd  never  have  sacrificed 
his  independence." 

She  laughed  scornfully.  "Sacrificed  his  independence? 
I  wonder  how?  A  man  who  has  a  mistress  hasn't  sacrificed 
much  that  I  can  see." 

"Let  us  keep  to  one  thing  at  a  time,  Maggie.  Leslie 
sacrificed  his  financial  independence,  and  he  did  it  to 
please  you.  I  wonder  if  you  have  any  idea  of  what  that 
means  in  the  case  of  a  man  as  proud  and  sensitive  as  he 
is?  He  could  never  have  done  it  if  he  hadn't  believed 
that  between  you  and  him  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
money." 

"No  such  thing  as  money?  My  dear  man,  how  you 
talk!" 

"Yes,  there  you  are.  But  what  is  money?  Is  it  any- 
thing more  than  the  token  of  exchange?  Once  you'd  got 
the  equivalent  of  money  the  money  itself  had  no  further 
meaning." 

"If  you  put  it  that  way,  the  equivalent  of  money  is  love, 
and  Leslie  has  never — " 

"No;  the  equivalent  of  money  is  life,  and  that's  what 

155 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

Leslie  has  given  you.    He's  put  his  life  in  your  hands. 
It's  for  you  to  make  of  it  what  you  will." 

"And  how  about  my  life  in  his  hands?" 

"Exactly  the  same  thing.  I'm  not  saying  that  Leslie 
has  done  his  duty  by  you  any  more  than  that  you've 
done  your  duty  by  him." 

"I  haven't  done  my  duty  by  him?    Well,  I  like  that!" 

"You  think  you've  done  it  because  you've  given  him 
so  much  a  year.  What  I'm  trying  to  point  out  is  that 
you  can't  interpret  your  relations  to  each  other  in  terms 
of  money;  that  money  has  no  meaning  to  you  and  him; 
that  life  is  all  that  matters  to  either  of  you.  When  you 
understand  that  the  spring  of  your  action  toward  Leslie 
— whatever  he's  been  or  has  not  been  to  you — must  be 
blessing  and  not  retaliation,  you'll  begin  to  get  hold  of 
your  duty  by  the  right  end;  but  you  won't  do  it  before 
that." 

If  there  was  a  result  from  these  exhortations  it  was  not 
immediately  apparent. 

From  his  efforts  to  stop  the  publication  of  paragraphs 
in  which  the  names  of  his  friends  were  mentioned  in 
jocular  familiarity  there  was  no  result  at  all.  He 
penetrated  on  one  occasion,  to  what  purported  to  be 
an  office,  in  a  sinister-looking  yellow  building,  very  far 
east  in  Twenty-fourth  Street.  Here  a  young  man,  with 
grim,  tight,  snapping  mouth,  and  wary,  restless  eyes, 
was  tilting  in  a  revolving-chair,  picking  his  teeth,  but 
otherwise  doing  nothing.  Bainbridge  having  stated  his 
errand  without  mentioning  the  names,  the  young  man, 
who  kept  his  hat  on  his  head  and  retained  his  position  in 
the  revolving-chair,  replied,  vaguely :  "Well,  that  wouldn't 
be  in  my  department." 

"Then  in  whose  department  would  it  be?" 

156 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

The  young  man  waved  the  toothpick  gracefully.  "I 
couldn't  rightly  say." 

"Would  it  be  possible  to  find  out?" 

"I  dun'no'  as  it  would  be."  He  brought  the  chair  to  a 
level  position  and  went  on,  confidentially.  "Say,  I'll  tell 
you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  ask  Miss  Beans.  She's  the  stenog- 
rapher, but  she  ain't  here  to-day.  Leave  your  address, 
and  I'll  let  you  know." 

Bainbridge  did  not  leave  his  address,  but,  returning  at 
a  later  date,  he  found  Miss  Beans.  She  proved  to  be  a 
tired  little  woman,  of  delicate  features,  and  a  tremor  of 
the  lip  that  portended  tears. 

In  answer  to  Bainbridge's  complaint  she  spoke  prettily 
and  sympathetically.  "Oh,  dear!  that  would  be  Mr. 
Davis's  department,  and  he's  now  in  the  West.  He'll 
regret  it  so" 

"Hasn't  he  left  any  one  to  take  his  place?" 

"Well,  no,  he  hasn't.  It's  very  inconvenient  when 
anything  of  this  sort  happens.  We  feel  it  so." 

"Couldn't  I  wire  him?" 

"You  might  if  we  knew  where  to  find  him,  but  we 
don't."  She  seemed  struck  with  a  bright  after-thought. 
"But  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  Will  you  not  leave  me 
your  address  and  I'll  write  to  him,  if  I  can  find  out  where 
he  is?  It  will  please  me  so" 

In  the  end  Bainbridge  was  obliged  to  bring  back  a  dis- 
couraged report  to  Mrs.  Gildersleeve.  He  had  noticed 
that  Clorinda  took  his  success  or  his  failure  in  these 
attempts,  of  which  there  had  been  a  good  many,  as  a 
matter  of  personal  importance.  If  her  own  name  had 
been  involved  in  the  hints  that  found  their  way  into 
print  she  could  not  have  been  more  intensely  concerned. 
It  was  only  when  he  broached  this  subject  that  he  ever 

iS7 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

nowadays  saw  In  her  eyes  that  fear  which  used  to  be  so 
regular  a  visitant. 

But  fear  was  almost  instantly  displaced  by  cheeriness. 
"Never  mind.  They  can't  go  on  with  it  forever.  In  a 
few  months'  time  it  will  have  blown  over.  I've  noticed 
that.  They  seem  to  get  tired  of  keeping  at  the  same  set 
of  people  too  long.  Their  readers  must  like  a  change." 

"The  odd  thing  is  the  way  in  which  they  get  their 
information.  I  should  think  it  must  come  from  the 
servants." 

"It  comes  from  some  one,"  Clorinda  contented  herself 
with  saying. 

"If  we  could  only  get  at  them!" 

"Yes,  if  we  only  could  we  should  stifle  the  thing;  but 
we  can't." 

In  the  matter  of  Pansy  Wilde  he  was,  however,  more 
successful,  directing  his  efforts  first  toward  the  judge 
who  had  consigned  the  girl  to  the  House  of  Comfort. 
The  judge  was  a  small,  elderly,  frosty-faced  man,  with  a 
long  upper  lip  which  he  made  longer  by  the  pursed-up, 
concentrated  movement  of  his  mouth  in  listening.  From 
his  manner  of  the  bench,  detached,  unbiased,  a  little 
severe,  he  might  have  been  born  in  his  office. 

He  tapped  soundlessly  on  his  desk  while  making  his 
points.  "In  considering  this  matter  there  are  three 
things  to  which  we  must  give  our  attention — discipline, 
training,  and  a  reasonable  certainty  that  the  work  shall 
go  on  for  a  stipulated  time.  What  can  you  say  of 
these?" 

"I  think  I  can  promise  all  three,  even  if  not  in  quite 
the  same  way  that  they  would  be  given  at  the  Home." 

"If  the  result  is  achieved,  the  method  is  immaterial. 

158 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

Be  so  good  as  to  tell  me  how  we  can  be  sure  that  the  end 
will  be  attained." 

Bainbridge  endeavored  to  be  clear.  "The  lady  I  speak 
of  is  a  person  of  considerable  means  living  in  Madison 
Avenue,  between — " 

"We're  not  concerned  with  her  residence;  it's  sufficient 
that  you  give  me  to  understand  that  she's  a  woman  of 
benevolent  intentions.  Have  the  goodness  to  inform  me 
of  what  expectations  we  can  entertain  that  she'll  carry 
her  intentions  out." 

It  was  not  in  one  interview  alone  that  Bainbridge 
gained  his  object;  but  he  gained  it.  After  a  fortnight's 
hesitation,  and  close  scrutiny  of  Mrs.  Gildersleeve's 
request,  the  judge  granted  a  permission  contingent  on 
the  willingness  of  the  mother  of  the  girl  and  of  the  matron 
of  the  House  of  Comfort  to  agree  with  it. 

Miss  Downie's  opposition  was  more  tenacious  than  the 
judge's,  because  less  reasoned  out.  "I  never  heard  of 
such  a  thing,"  was  the  argument  she  found  most 
cogent. 

"No,  nor  I,"  Bainbridge  admitted,  frankly;  "but  the 
world  is  full  of  improvements  we  never  heard  of  thirty 
years  ago." 

"Of  course  the  child's  unhappy,"  Miss  Downie  agreed, 
vehemently.  "Who  wouldn't  be  unhappy  after  such  an 
experience  as  hers?  But  what's  a  little  unhappiness  when 
it  means  her  salvation?  We  know  what  we're  doing,  and 
we  know  what  will  be  the  result." 

With  her  convictions,  her  experience,  her  zeal,  her  burn- 
ing eyes,  and  her  bunch  of  keys,  she  might  have  dis- 
suaded Bainbridge  from  his  purpose  had  he  not  been 
working  for  Clorinda.  "I'm  not  thinking  of  Pansy 
altogether — " 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

Miss  Downie  perceived  her  advantage.  "So  I  see; 
but  I  am." 

Ignoring  the  irony,  though  not  without  a  flush,  he  went 
on:  "No  one  can  know  better  than  yourself  the  good 
which  such  work  as  yours  can  do  for  the  worker — 

Again  Miss  Downie  pounced  on  him.  "This  is  a  home 
for  unfortunate  girls  who've  got  into  trouble.  It's  not  a 
plaything  for  fashionable  ladies  who  are  bored  with  every- 
thing else." 

Miss  Downie  never  yielded,  but  she  was  overcome. 
She  was  overcome  by  a  concensus  of  the  more  modern- 
minded  among  the  directors  in  favor  of  the  new  social 
experiment  to  be  tried  on  Pansy  Wilde.  This  coalition 
happened  to  be  backed  by  a  timely  misunderstanding, 
resulting  in  "words"  between  Pansy  and  Miss  Scatter- 
good.  Pansy's  ability  to  flash  out  in  "words"  was  taken 
as  a  revival  of  her  broken  spirit  and  as  a  menace  to  the 
institution's  future  peace.  As,  moreover,  the  circum- 
stances made  it  difficult  for  the  head  matron  to  support 
her  second  in  command,  and  still  more  difficult  to  desert 
her,  it  became  the  easiest  way  to  give  to  Pansy's  with- 
drawal some  of  the  aspects  of  banishment.  No  more  re- 
mained for  Bainbridge  than  to  secure  the  consent  of 
Mrs.  Wilde. 

The  difficulty  here  was  to  make  Pansy's  mother  speak 
in  a  manner  that  could  be  called  decisive.  It  was  plain 
to  Bainbridge  that  the  poor  woman  thought  she  could 
escape  from  the  disgrace  of  the  family  situation  by  dis- 
owning it.  It  was  not  less  plain  to  him  that  in  dis- 
owning it  she  took  the  course  for  the  excellent  reason 
that  she  couldn't  see  what  else  to  do. 

"I've  stood  all  I  can  on  account  of  Pansy,"  she  de- 
clared, in  a  dull,  sorrowful  voice,  "and  now  I'm  about 

1 60 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

sick  of  it.  I've  rose  above  it,  anyhow.  If  I  hadn't,  I 
don't  know  where  I'd  ha'  been.  I've  got  my  other  children 
to  bring  up  and  keep  respectable,  if  there's  any  way  of 
doing  it,  which  I  dare  say  there  ain't,  and  that's  all  I've 
got  to  say." 

"But  it  isn't  all  you've  got  to  feel,  Mrs.  Wilde." 

jTo  this  there  was  no  reply  during  the  minute  it  took 
her  to  lift  the  cover  from  a  big  round  pan,  cut  off  a  lump 
of  dough  from  the  larger  quantity  "rising"  within,  and 
begin  lightly  to  rub  it  in  the  dab  of  flour  on  the  rolling- 
board.  "What  I've  got  to  feel  is  my  own  affair,"  she 
said  at  last.  "If  I  can  stand  it  nobody  else  needn't 
mind." 

"Unfortunately  we  can't  always  choose  what  we  shall 
mind  and  what  we  shall  not.  When  we  know  you're  in 
trouble  we  want  to  get  you  out  of  it." 

Taking  the  rolling-pin,  she  rolled  her  lump  of  dough  till 
it  was  flat  and  thin  and  oval.  "I've  seen  a  lot  of  getting 
people  out  of  trouble,  and  what  it's  generally  amounted 
to  has  been  making  'em  bear  their  trouble  in  somebody 
else's  way  instid  of  their  own.  If  I've  got  trouble 
I  guess  my  way  of  taking  it  is  as  good  as  the  next 
one's." 

These  observations  were  made  not  bitterly  or  perversely, 
but  with  quiet,  dignified  resignation.  She  was  a  massive, 
motherly  woman,  made  for  the  peaceful,  homey  ways  of 
Lisbon,  New  York,  whence  she  had  sprung,  rather  than 
for  the  fight  for  life  in  a  poor  quarter  of  the  metropolis. 
Bainbridge,  who  as  a  curate  had  worked  much  among 
the  poor,  knew  how  to  judge  them  at  a  glance  by  the 
mere  aspect  of  their  surroundings.  In  this  kitchen- 
living-room  there  were  neatness  and  cleanliness  and  none 
of  the  more  terrible  indications  of  want.  Since  the 


THE   LIFTED  VEIL 

children's  supper  had  to  be  prepared,  the  mother  went  on 
with  her  task  not  only  of  necessity,  but  because  the  occu- 
pation of  her  hands  relieved  her  overstrained  nerves. 

Bainbridge  was  purposely  making  his  visit  late  in  the 
afternoon,  so  as  to  find  her  on  her  return  from  work. 
With  his  faculty  for  being  at  home  in  any  surroundings 
in  which  there  was  need  of  him  he  sat  without  em- 
barrassment at  the  end  of  the  table  on  which  his  hostess 
"baked,"  which  was,  indeed,  the  only  place  she  had  to 
offer  him. 

"I've  no  doubt  of  that,"  Bainbridge  agreed,  in  response 
to  Mrs.  Wilde's  philosophy,  "and  yet  if  you  have  troubles 
I  suppose  you  don't  object  to  their  being  made  lighter. 
The  lady  who's  willing  to  take  Pansy — " 

Mrs.  Wilde  cut  fiercely  into  her  superficies  of  dough 
with  an  oval  cutter,  repeating  the  operation  wherever 
she  found  space.  "A  lady  has  taken  Pansy  already,  and 
see  what's  come  of  it." 

"Quite  so;  and  it's  because  we  do  see  what's  come  of 
it  that  we're  looking  for  something  else." 

"They've  put  her  where  she  is  without  asking  me.  Why 
can't  they  take  her  out  in  the  same  way?" 

"Because  there  was  no  responsibility  in  putting  her  in, 
whereas  in  taking  her  out  they  want  to  be  assured  that 
they  have  your  approval." 

Doubling  the  small  ovals  she  had  cut,  she  placed  them 
side  by  side  in  a  baking-pan,  making  two  rows  of  three. 
Her  mouth  quivered  as  she  spoke,  though  she  did  her 
best  to  maintain  an  air  of  detachment.  "  She  wouldn't 
so  much  as  tell  me  who  the  man  was,  so  as  I  could 
go  and  beg  him  to  marry  her  or  have  him  into  court. 
She  liked  better  to  bring  disgrace  on  us;  but  we've 
rose  above  it.  I've  got  my  other  children  to  think  of 

163 


and  bring  up  respectable.    Pansy  can  go  where  she  likes 
and  do  what  she  likes,  for  all  I — for  all  I — " 

Bainbridge  saw  two  great  tears  beginning  to  trickle 
from  beneath  the  heavy,  handsome  lids  as  he  finished, 
softly:  " For  all  you  care.  Is  that  it?" 

She  rolled  the  fringes  of  dough  into  a  tight  little  ball, 
dabbing  it  into  the  flour  on  the  board.  "When  a  pitcher's 
full  it's  full.  You  can't  put  anything  more  into  it." 

"And  your  pitcher  was  full  already — full  of  trial  and 
sorrow.  I  understand  that." 

"Pansy  had  no  need  to  add  to  what  I  had  to  bear," 
she  declared,  rolling  her  small  cake  flat  and  doubling  it 
to  lay  beside  its  fellows.  "She  didn't  so  much  as  ask  me 
to  forgive  her.  She  just  wouldn't  tell  me  the  man's  name, 
and  ran  away.  I  couldn't  run  after  her.  I  had  my  other 
children  to  take  care  of,  and  I  didn't  dare  to  leave  'em. 
If  you  blame  me  for  that — " 

"I'm  not  blaming  you  for  anything.  I'm  only  saying 
that  now  that  we  have  a  chance  to  make  things  better 
and  easier  all  round,  it  would  be  well  to  use  it;  and  we 
can't  do  that  till  you  agree." 

"I  don't  see  what  you  want  me  to  agree  for.  I've  got 
nothing  to  say  to  it  one  way  or  t'other.  If  you'd  stood 
all  on  account  of  Pansy  that  I  have  .  .  .  and  that  old 
Miss  Higgins  pretending  to  be  so  fond  of  her,  and  yet 
letting  her  out  nights  to  tramp  the  city  with  the  Lord 
knows  who.  ...  If  I  could  find  out  his_name  I'd  have 
the  law  on  him — a  child  of  seventeen!" 

"Isn't  it  possible  that  on  that  point  Pansy  has  been 
wiser  than  we  have?  What  good  would  it  do  us,  after  all, 
to  know  who  the  man  is?  We  could  only  punish  him  by 
making  her  troubles  more  public;  and  she's  had  a  pretty 
hard  time  as  it  is.  You  know  that,  don't  you?" 

163 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

The  mother  turned  sharply  to  the  stove,  whence  she 
took  a  cup  of  melted  butter  that  also  held  a  pastry-brush. 
By  the  time  she  had  returned  to  the  table  the  proud  lip 
had  stiffened  sufficiently  to  enable  her  to  say:  "I  don't 
know  anything  about  it,  and — and  I  don't  want  to  know. 
If  I'm  to  bring  up  my  other  children  respectable  I  must 
rise  above  the  whole  thing." 

"You  can't  rise  above  anything  by  turning  your  back 
on  it  and  refusing  to  know  what  it  is." 

She  was  painting  the  inside  of  her  rolls  with  melted 
butter  as  he  went  on  pitilessly,  "After  the  baby  was 
born  poor  little  Pansy  went  to  work  too  soon." 

He  allowed  this  information  to  sink  in  while  she  cut 
off  another  lump  of  dough  from  the  main  stock  in  the 
big  round  pan. 

"Her  first  job  was  in  a  candy-factory.  She  had  to  give 
it  up  when  they  found  she  had  a  child." 

More  flour  having  been  sprinkled  on  the  board, 
she  began  again  the  process  of  dabbing  the  new  lump 
into  it. 

"She  was  turned  out  of  her  rooming-house,  too,  and 
had  to  move  to  another.  But  here,  when  they  heard  the 
baby  cry,  they  wouldn't  let  her  stay  the  night." 

The  proud,  meek  features  twitched  as  the  lump  was 
rolled  to  a  flat  oval. 

"She  had  to  move  two  or  three  times  after  that, 
but  always  with  the  same  result.  She  could  hide  her 
baby  for  a  day,  and  sometimes  for  a  day  or  two;  but 
they  found  she  had  it,  in  the  end,  and  then  she  had 
to  go." 

"  Oh,  stop !' '  The  cry  was  that  of  a  great  mother-animal. 
From  sheer  need  of  personal  activity  she  worked  the 
cutter  desperately.  "I'm  her  mother.  I  can't  stand  it. 

164 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

I've  been  hard  on  her,  but  I  didn't  know  what  else  to 

do " 

So  Bainbridge  broke  down  the  cold,  fierce  pride  that 
passed  for  respectability  at  Lisbon,  and  the  last  barrier 
but  one  to  Clorinda's  coming  to  the  aid  of  Pansy  was 
taken  by  assault.  There  still  remained  the  last  barrier 
of  all,  which  was  Pansy's  own  consent. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  inclination  of  Miss  Scattergood's  head  on  a  long 
neck  that  broadened  to  its  base  was  exactly  that  of  a 
giraffe's.  "If  you'll  be  good  enough  to  sit  down  I'll  send 
her  in."  She  added,  over  her  shoulder  as  she  reached  the 
door:  "I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  she's  impertinent. 
She's  a  pretty  child,  and  in  some  ways  bidable;  but  she's 
impertinent."  As  further  information  she  said,  when  she 
had  reached  the  hall,  "We  haven't  told  her  anything,  so 
you'll  find  it  all  to  do." 

Because  Clorinda  was  frightened  and  nervous  and 
unused  to  Homes  she  said  under  her  breath,  as  Miss 
Scattergood  withdrew,  "Oh,  that  woman!"  For  the  same 
reason,  she  murmured,  "Oh,  how  dreadful!"  as  she  looked 
round  the  room. 

Bainbridge  laughed.  "It's  only  dreadful  to  a  super- 
sensitive  taste.  As  a  matter  of  fact  it's  very  clean,  and — 

"Clean,  yes.  I've  never  seen  anything  so  clean  in  all 
my  life.  It's  clean  to  the  point  at  which  your  soul  cries 
out  for  dust.  And  this  odor" — her  delicate  nostrils 
quivered — "this  smell  of  discipline" — she  gave  a  little 
sniff — "of  disinfectant" — she  sniffed  again — "and  of  good 
will — it's  so  characteristic  of  the  methods  of  Christian 
love  imparted  by  machinery  that  I  should  have  recog- 
nized it  even  if  I  didn't  know  where  I  was." 

Bainbridge  loved  the  new  freedom  of  speech  she  had 

166 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

begun  to  allow  herself  when  alone  with  him.  He  loved 
this  way  of  going  about  with  her,  with  interests  in  common 
like  those  of  man  and  wife.  "You'd  find  the  machinery 
necessary,"  he  laughed  again,  "if  you  had  thirty  way- 
ward girls  to  take  care  of." 

"But  I  shouldn't  have  them.  It  would  never  have 
occurred  to  me  to  try  anything  so  clumsy.  I'd  do  what 
I  could  for  them  individually  or  I  should  make  no  attempt 
at  all." 

"I  suppose  it  was  the  no  attempt  at  all  that  our  worthy 
forefathers  were  afraid  of.  I  can  imagine  that  they  had 
as  much  scorn  of  Christian  love  imparted  by  machinery 
as  you  and  I — only  they  understood  that  it  must  be  that 
or  none." 

She  continued  her  inspection  of  the  room.  "These  are 
interesting,  these  old  lithographed  heads.  They  must 
date  from  the  thirties  and  forties."  She  worked  off  some 
of  her  restlessness  by  passing  from  portrait  to  portrait, 
reading  the  names.  "That's  a  Stuyvesant,  the  old  man 
with  the  neckcloth;  this  old  lady  who  looks  like  Queen 
Victoria's  mother  was  a  Rintoul — must  have  been  some 
relation  of  mine;  that's  a  Jarrott;  that's  a  Van  Tromp. 
It's  curious  how  the  old  names  persist,  even  in  New  York." 
She  wheeled  round  from  the  walls  toward  the  middle  of 
the  room.  "These  Chippendale  chairs  are  good.  Must 
have  been  the  wreckage  of  some  fine  old  home — or  pos- 
sibly discarded  and  sent  here  when  the  mania  for  machine- 
made  furniture  took  possession  of  our  fathers  and  mothers 
about  1850.  But  who  could  have  covered  them  with  rep 
of  one  shade  of  crimson  and  set  them  on  a  carpet  of 
another?  Isn't  that  symbolical  of  the  whole  system? 
Excellent  intentions  gone  just  a  little  wrong.  Ah!" 

The  exclamation  was  caused  by  the  sound  of  the 

167 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

slipping  of  a  bolt.  "She's  coming,"  Bainbridge  whis- 
pered, the  smile  passing  from  his  lips  as  he  withdrew  to 
the  background  to  let  Clorinda  carry  out  her  task  alone. 

He  judged  this  best,  for  the  beginning,  at  any  rate. 
Since  the  responsibility  was  to  be  hers,  it  was  well  that 
she  should  shoulder  it  from  the  first.  He  slipped  into  a 
corner,  therefore,  barricaded,  as  it  were,  behind  one  of 
the  Chippendale  chairs  which  he  held  by  the  back.  Clo- 
rinda stood  in  the  center  of  the  room,  beside  the  marble- 
topped  table,  on  which  lay  an  immense,  heavily  bound 
Bible,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  empty  doorway. 

They  could  hear  the  shuffle  of  Pansy's  steps  along  the 
corridor.  She  was  not  coming  lightly  or  blithely.  They 
could  tell  by  the  way  in  which  she  dragged  herself  along 
that  she  had  no  thought  of  approaching  deliverance. 

When  she  appeared  at  last  in  the  cavernous  dusk  of  the 
hall,  her  face  was  as  white  as  her  blouse.  An  old  wine- 
colored  skirt  hung  limply  and  dejectedly  about  her  little 
person.  A  wine-colored  tie,  faded  and  carelessly  knotted, 
was  but  the  relic  of  past  coquetry,  like  a  stained  and 
bedraggled  flower  that  has  once  been  in  full  bloom.  Her 
hands  hung  heavily  at  her  sides.  In  the  staring  of  her 
wide  violet  eyes  there  was  the  fear  of  some  new  twist  to 
the  net  that  had  enmeshed  her.  The  dull  stupefaction  of 
suffering  was  in  the  degree  to  which  her  lips,  lovely  in 
spite  of  their  bloodlessness,  fell  just  a  little  open. 

Mute  and  questioning  she  stood  on  the  threshold,  not 
daring  to  enter  the  room.  Like  a  spirit  conjured  up  from 
unimaginable  depths,  she  seemed  to  ask  why  she  had  been 
sent  for.  There  was  something  piteously  dignified  in  the 
demand. 

Bainbridge  had  no  difficulty  in  reading  what  was  pass- 
ing in  Clorinda's  mind.  Her  stilled  attitude,  her  sudden 

168 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

pallor,  her  helplessness  and  speechlessness,  made  it  clear. 
Because  she  knew  the  details  of  the  child's  history  as 
she  had  not  known  them  on  Christmas  Eve,  she  felt  her- 
self dumb  before  so  youthful  an  incarnation  of  tragedy. 
It  was  beyond  what  she  was  prepared  for — beyond  belief. 
For  a  space  of  seconds  that  seemed  long  the  two  women, 
since  woman  Pansy  must  be  called,  confronted  each 
other  in  silence. 

When  Clorinda  found  voice  at  last  it  was  with  strange 
huskiness.  "Pansy,"  she  said,  abruptly,  "I  want  to  know 
if  you'll  come  and  live  with  me." 

In  the  wide,  vacant  eyes  there  was  no  sign  of  compre- 
hension or  response. 

Clorinda  continued  as  best  she  could.  "I'm — I'm 
sorry  for  you,  Pansy.  I  know  what  you've  been  through, 
and  I  want — I  want  to  help  you." 

On  the  spirit  called  up  from  the  void  of  its  despair  the 
words  made  no  impression. 

Clorinda  struggled  on.  "I  don't  believe  you're  happy 
here;  I  know  you're  not  happy.  If  you'll  come  with 
me—" 

There  was  a  movement  on  Pansy's  part,  but  only  that 
of  shrinking  back  into  the  dimness  of  the  hall. 

Bainbridge  came  forward  from  his  retreat  and  whis- 
pered: "Hadn't  you  better  put  it  a  little  more  plainly- 
less  emotionally — and  more  as  a  lady  looking  for  a  servant  ? 
Put  it  on  the  ground  of  a  new  place,  a  new  job.  That's 
something  she'll  understand." 

As  he  withdrew  again  behind  his  chair  Clorinda  made 
a  fresh  attempt.  "You  see,  it's  this  way,  Pansy.  I'm 
looking  for  some  one  to  help  my  maid,  and  I've  thought— 
I've  thought  you  would  do.  It  would  be  a  nice  place  for 
you,  and  I  should  see  you  all  the  time.  My  maid's  name 

12  169 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

is  Alphonsine.  She's  a  nice  woman.  She'd  be  kind  to 
you.  She'd  show  you  how  to  do  things,  to  sew  and  mend, 
and  things  like  that."  She  racked  her  brain  for  a  list  of 
inducements  that  would  sound  natural.  "You'd  have  a 
room  to  yourself — and  good  wages — and  not  too  much 
work  to  do — and — •" 

Pansy's  voice  from  the  hall  was  deep  and  startling. 
"And  an  afternoon  out?" 

Clorinda  hesitated.  "Yes,"  she  said  at  length,  "an 
afternoon  out — with  some  one." 

Again  the  depth  of  Pansy's  tone  gave  tragic  intensity 
to  her  words.  "Some  one  to  watch  me?" 
t/'  "Not  to  watch  you,  Pansy — to  take  care  of  you.  You 
wouldn't  mind  that,  would  you?  If  I  had  a  daughter  of 
your  age  I  should  want  her  to  be  taken  care  of  when  she 
was  out  in  the  street.  I  should  do  for  you  exactly  the  same 
as  for  a  child  of  my  own." 

"Would  they  know  about  me — the  other  girls  in  your 
house?" 

"No  one  but  Alphonsine,  as  far  as  I  could  prevent  it. 
She's  a  motherly  woman,  a  Frenchwoman — and  French- 
women don't — don't  feel  about — about  such  things — like 
Americans.  They're  often  kinder — and  have  more  un- 
derstanding— " 

"I  won't  go."  The  declaration  had  tears  in  it  rather 
than  defiance.  "They'd  find  out.  Some  one  would  be 
sure  to  tell  them.  Then  they'd  look  down  on  me." 

"But  I  don't  look  down  on  you,  Pansy.  Can't  you 
see  that  I  don't?  You  wouldn't  be  living  with  them. 
You'd  be  living  with  me." 

The  girl's  relapse  into  silence  was  like  the  sinking  back 
of  the  summoned  spirit  into  its  abyss.  For  the  minute 
Clorinda,  too,  was  at  the  end  of  her  persuasive  powers. 

170 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

It  was  not  that  she  had  no  more  to  say,  but,  her  heart 
having  been  always  locked  on  the  sort  of  thing  she  had 
now  to  utter,  she  found  it  difficult  to  open  it. 

Divining  this  inability,  Bainbridge  again  stepped  for- 
ward. "Won't  you  come  in,  Pansy?  Mrs.  Gildersleeve 
wants  to  talk  about  it  seriously.  We  must  look  at  it 
all  round — with  its  advantages  for  you,  and  its  disad- 
vantages." 

Pansy  advanced  slowly,  not  so  much  timidly  as  dis- 
trustfully, and  not  so  much  distrustfully  as  with  the  con- 
viction that  whatever  promised  good  could  be  nothing 
but  a  trap.  She  came  straight,  however,,  and  without 
hesitation,  till  there  was  only  the  marble-topped  table 
between  Clorinda  and  herself.  Her  attitude  was  again 
that  of  the  spirit  mutely  asking  to  know  why  it  has  been 
called. 

The  child's  suggestion  of  being  too  deeply  sunk  into 
misery  to  be  able  to  rebel  against  it  was  what  finally 
touched  Clorinda  to  the  quick.  Awkwardness  and  the 
lack  of  habit  vanished  suddenly  from  her  consciousness. 
Her  heart  was  not  precisely  unlocked;  it  flew  open  of  its 
own  accord. 

"I  know  about  you,  Pansy,  and — don't  you  see? — 
that's  why  I'm  here  asking  you  to  come  with  me.  It's 
because  you've  done  the  things  you've  done  that  I  want 
you.  That  seems  strange  to  you,  doesn't  it?  but  it  would- 
n't if  you  knew  all  about  me.  It  doesn't  seem  strange  to 
Mr.  Bainbridge  here;  it  really  isn't  strange  at  all." 

The  effect  of  these  words  on  Pansy  was  to  make  her 
open  her  eyes  wider,  with  a  look  in  which  incredulity 
struggled  with  amazement.  Once  more  Bainbridge 
thought  it  wise  to  intervene.  "It  isn't  that  Mrs.  Gilder- 
sleeve  thinks  you've  been  right,  Pansy,  but  only  that 

171 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

you've  been  unhappy.  It's  the  unhappiness  that  counts 
with  her  just  now,  not  the  right  and  wrong.  They  can 
wait;  we  can  think  of  them  later  on." 

Though  Pansy  remained  speechless,  her  eyes  had  the 
wide-open,  innocent  blankness  of  the  flower  from  which 
she  took  her  name. 

"And  I  understand  you,"  Clorinda  went  on.  "That's 
something  in  itself.  We  know  it  was  wrong,  don't  we? 
but  it  isn't  what  we've  got  to  think  of  just  now,  as  Mr. 
Bainbridge  says.  They  tell  us  we  don't  have  to  punish 
wrong — that  it  punishes  itself.  But  what  we  have  got  to 
do  is  help  each  other  when  the  punishment  has  overtaken 
us.  That's  what  I  mean  when  I  say  that  it's  because 
you've  done  what  you've  done  that  I  want  you.  If  you 
hadn't  done  it  you  wouldn't  be  in  trouble;  and  if  you 
weren't  in  trouble  you  wouldn't  want  me.  If  a  baby 
needs  things  it  cries;  and  when  it  cries  any  one  with  a 
human  heart  wants  to  go  to  it  and  do  for  it  the  things 
it  can't  do  for  itself.  That's  a  little  how  I  feel  now, 
Pansy—" 

Bainbridge  hastened  to  interpret.  "What  Mrs.  Gilder- 
sleeve  means  is  that  she  has  this  excellent  place  to  offer 
you,  in  which  you'd  have  a  good  home.  If  you  want  to 
take  it  we've  arranged  that  you  shall  be  free  to  do  so. 
The  judge  has  said  you  may — and  Miss  Downie — and 
your  mother.  But  of  course  we  can't  compel  you.  If 
you'd  rather  stay  here — " 

For  the  first  time  a  gleam  of  intelligence  shot  through 
the  pansy-like  eyes.  She  seemed  to  understand  that  the 
opening  door  could  swing  to  again,  as  her  bosom  rose 
and  fell. 

"If  you'd  rather  stay  here,"  Clorinda  broke  in,  rapidly, 
"it  would  be  because  you  didn't  understand  what  I'm 

172 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

offering  you.  It  is  a  good  place;  we  could  make  it  so. 
In  that  I'm  sure  you  would  meet  me  half-way,  as  I  should 
meet  you.  You'd  have  Alphonsine  as  your  friend,  and  if 
you  were  afraid  of  the  other  maids — and  I  don't  believe 
you'd  need  to  be — you'd  have  me.  Then  there  would  be 
a  certain  amount  of  liberty — an  afternoon  out,  as  you 
say — and  regular  wages,  so  that  you  could  help  your 
mother  and  the  other  children  at  home.  Besides  that 
you'd  have  something  else,  something  I  hardly  know  how 
to  put  into  words,  except  that  it  would  give  you  the 
chance  to  rest — to  get  strong  again — to  think —  No,  I 
don't  mean  to  think  of  the  past,"  she  explained,  hastily, 
at  sight  of  the  girl's  look  of  alarm — "but  to  think  of  the 
future — to  plan  for  it — to  look  forward  to  it  with  hope. 
You  wouldn't  refuse  that,  would  you?" 

There  was  nothing  to  precede  or  herald  Pansy's  sob, 
no  trembling  of  the  lip  or  preliminary  dash  of  tears.  It 
was  in  fact  a  tearless  sob,  a  mere  convulsive  moan  that 
subsided  as  suddenly  as  it  began,  leaving  her  as  before. 
It  was  less  startling  to  Bainbridge,  who  was  familiar  with 
most  of  the  tricks  emotion  can  play,  than  it  was  to  Clo- 
rinda.  "But,  Pansy,  I  don't  want  to  frighten  you  or 
make  you  cry — "  she  began,  stammeringly. 

Pansy  flung  herself  on  the  chair  that  stood  beside  the 
table,  her  arms  outstretched  across  the  Bible,  and  her 
hands  clasped  as  if  in  some  violent  prayer.  She  was 
still  tearless,  possibly  because  she  had  no  more  tears 
to  shed. 

"I  didn't  do  it,"  she  muttered,  in  her  deep,  tragic,  un- 
childlike  voice;  "I  didn't  kill  it  ...  the  baby.  .  .  .  I— 
only  hoped  it — it  would  die." 

Clorinda  was  on  the  point  of  throwing  herself  on  her 
knees  beside  the  girl  when  Bainbridge  put  out  his  hand 

173 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

and  stopped  her.  "No;  let  her  go  on.  She  wants  to  tell 
us — to  tell  some  one.  It  will  ease  her  mind,  and  do  her 
good." 

Pansy  went  on  again,  hoarsely,  looking  straight  before 
her,  pouring  her  confession  into  the  air.  "I  didn't  do  it 
...  I  wouldn't  have  done  it.  ...  If  it  had  lived  I'd 
have  taken  care  of  it  as  well — as  well  as  I  knew  how.  .  .  . 
I  only  hated  it.  ...  No,  I  didn't  hate  it.  ...  It  was 
like  something  I  loved  and  hated  at  the  same  time.  .  .  . 
It  was  so  little  and  .  .  .  and  helpless  .  .  .  but  it  had 
eyes  like  his  and  I  knew  it  would  have  his  colored  hair.  .  .  . 
It  was  born  with  a  lot  of  hair  ...  all  downy  and  soft. 
...  It  was  a  little  boy  ...  its  name  was  Lionel  .  .  . 
Lionel  Lemuel.  .  .  .  I  called  him  Lemuel  after  poppa  .  .  . 
and  Lionel  because  I  liked  the  name.  ...  I  wouldn't  call 
it  his  name.  ...  I  didn't  know  what  it  was.  ...  I 
found  out  it  wasn't  Gussie  ...  he  just  give  me  that 
name  to  fool  me.  ...  I  was  afraid  it  would  grow  up 
like  him  .  .  .  and  so  I  hoped  it  would  die.  .  .  .  But  I 
didn't  kill  it.  ...  They  said  I  did,  but  I  didn't.  ...  I 
thought  of  it  two  or  three  times  .  .  .  but  I  couldn't  .  .  . 
I  didn't  know  how.  ...  I  couldn't  do  anything  to  it 
with  my  own  hands.  .  .  .  Once  when  it  cried  in  the  night 
and  give  me  away  in  the  house  where  I  roomed  in  Brad- 
shaw  Avenue,  I  thought  I'd — I'd  choke  it  ...  but  when 
I  took  hold  of  it,  it  was  so  little — and  soft — and  helpless — 
I— I  couldn't.  ...  He  said  if  I'd  do  it  he'd— he'd  bury 
it— but— " 

"He?"  Bainbridge  questioned,  gently.  "Who?  Its 
father?" 

She  nodded,  keeping  her  eyes  raised  and  staring  off 
into  the  distance.  "He  come  to  see  me  once.  .  .  .  That 
was  when  I  was  in  Mooney  Street.  ...  I  was  there  three 

174 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

days.  ...  It  was  the  longest  anywhere.  ...  I  sent  him 
a  post-card  and  he  come  that  night.  ...  He  said 
he  was  going  to  light  out  to  the  West  .  .  .  where  his 
wife  was." 

"So  he  had  a  wife?" 

She  nodded  again.  "I  didn't  know  that  till — till  it 
was  too  late  to  do  any  good.  .  .  .  He  said  we  was  engaged 
.  .  .  and  that  he'd  marry  me  .  .  .  and  give  me  a  set  of 
fox  furs  .  .  .  and  buy  me  lunches  .  .  .  and  take  me  to 
Coney  .  .  .  and  everything  like  that  .  .  .  and  then  I 
found  out  he  was  married  .  .  .  and  so  when  he  come 
that  night,  and  I  told  him  I'd  been  turned  out  of  so  many 
places  when  they  found  out  I  had  the  baby,  he  said — he 
said  we  must — we  must  make  away  with  it.  ...  He  said 
that  if  I'd  kill  it  I  wouldn't  have  any  trouble  with  it 
afterward,  because  he'd  carry  it  off  in  my  suit-case  .  .  . 
like  I  brought  it  in.  ...  But  I  couldn't  kill  it  ...  and 
then  he  got  mad  and  said  he'd  do  it  himself.  ...  So  he 
took  it  out  of  the  bed.  ...  It  was  sleeping  awful  sound, 
because  a  girl  I  knew  who'd  had  a  baby  of  her  own  had 
give  me  some  drops  to  put  in  its  milk  .  .  .  but  when  I 
saw  him  take  it  up  ...  it  was  an  awful  small  baby  .  .  . 
it  didn't  weigh  no  more  than  five  or  six  pounds  .  .  .  and 
me  not  having  the  proper  food  for  it  ...  and  having  to 
drag  it  about  .  .  .  and  keeping  it  shut  up  in  the  suit-case 
for  an  hour  and  more  at  a  time  when  I  had  to  move  .  .  . 
I  just  let  out  one  awful  scream  and  snatched  it  away  from 
him.  ..." 

"You  wouldn't  have  hurt  it,  then,  for  anything?" 

"No,  sir;  not  when  it  was  right  up  to  me  like  that.  .  .  . 
But  he  swore  something  awful  .  .  .  and  said  I  was  trying 
to  ruin  him  because  I  was  under  the  right  age  .  .  .  and 
that  I'd  made  him  throw  up  his  job  at  the  paper  where 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

Miss  Higgins  used  to  send  me  with  the  things  she  wanted 
to  have  printed  in  Chicago.  .  .  .  That's  where  I  met  him 
...  he  used  to  be  there  when  I  went  with  the  things  for 
Miss  Higgins  ...  it  was  always  him  who  took  them 
...  in  Twenty-fourth  Street  .  .  .  down  by  the  East 
River  ..." 

Bainbridge  glanced  toward  Clorinda,  who  had  not  recog- 
nized the  significance  of  these  words.  "A  big  yellow 
building — the  fifth  floor — an  office  at  the  back." 

"Yes,  sir."  She  spoke  as  one  hypnotized.  "Kilroy 
wasn't  his  real  name  ...  no  more  than  it  was  Gussie. 
.  .  .  Gussie  Kilroy  was  just  a  name  he  give  me.  ...  I 
don't  know  what  his  real  name  was  .  .  .  and  that's  why 
I  wouldn't  tell  momma.  .  .  .  Momma  was  awful  mad 
.  .  .  but  what  was  the  use — then?  .  .  .  Momma  has  been 
a  reg'lar  crape-hanger  about  me,  anyways  .  .  .  never 
wanted  me  to  have  a  good  time.  .  .  .  You  couldn't  get 
him  when  you  didn't  know  his  name  .  .  .  and  he  was 
married,  besides  .  .  .  and  so  I  just  made  up  my  mind  to 
take  my  medicine.  ...  I  knew  that  if  I  could  get  rid  of 
the  baby  I  could  go  reg'lar  bad,  like  Mary  Swett  .  .  . 
a  girl  I  used  to  go  to  school  with.  .  .  .  They  let  her  stay 
in  Mooney  Street,  though  they  knew  what  she  was  .  .  . 
but  they  wouldn't  keep  me  because  I  had  little  Lionel 
...  I  always  liked  his  name  .  .  .  and  so  I  had  to  go  to 
Tyke  Street,  where  it  was  something  fierce  .  .  .  and  the 
drops  I  used  to  put  in  the  milk  give  out,  and  I  didn't 
know  how  to  get  any  more  .  .  .  and  the  baby  got  fret- 
fuler  and  fretfuler  .  .  .  and  I  was  trying  to  find  out 
about  homes  where  I  could  put  it  ...  or  some  woman 
who'd  take  it  to  nurse.  .  .  .  But  no  one  didn't  know  any- 
thing .  .  .  and  I  was  afraid  to  ask  .  .  .  and  it  was 
getting  too  big  for  the  suit-case,  though  it  kept  so  awful 

176 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

small  .  .  .  and  all  I  could  do  was  to  bury  it  right  in  the 
middle  of  the  bed  when  I  went  to  work.  ...  I  got  back 
to  it  every  minute  I  could  .  .  .  and  so  long  as  I  had  the 
drops  it  didn't  hardly  stir  ...  it  seemed  to  get  to  de- 
pend on  them  like.  .  .  .  But  that  day  I  couldn't  get  away 
at  the  lunch-hour  ...  a  lot  of  extra  work  had  come  in 
to  the  laundry  .  .  .  and  old  Steptoe  what  run  it  said 
that  any  girl  that  went  out  to  lunch  could  stay  out  to 
lunch  .  .  .  and  I'd  had  such  an  awful  job  to  find  a  job 
after  they  bounced  me  from  the  candy-factory  .  .  .  and 
so  everything  was  against  me  ...  and  when  I  got 
back  to  my  room  and  turned  down  the  bedclothes  I 
just  let  out  one  awful  holler  .  .  .  and  I  didn't  know 
anything  more  till  I  woke  up  and  found  I  was — in — 
in  jail." 

The  recital  ended,  her  head  dropped  on  her  arms  and 
she  cried  softly.  There  was  no  passion  in  her  grief — 
nothing  but  the  gentle  weeping  of  a  heart  relieved  of  part 
of  its  load.  Clorinda  passed  round  the  table  and  laid  a 
hand  on  the  quietly  heaving  shoulder. 

"I  shall  come  for  you  to-morrow  morning,  Pansy  dear. 
You'll  be  packed  and  ready  by  eleven,  won't  you?  That's 
understood." 

But  Pansy  quivered  at  the  touch.  "Don't  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  me,"  she  sobbed.  "I'm  better  here.  It's 
all  I'm  fit  for.  I  did  kill  it — in  my  feelings — sometimes. 
I  dare  say  I'd  have  come  to  it,  if  I  got  desperate — and  I 
was  pretty  near  desperate,  anyways."  She  raised  her 
head  to  add:  "When  I  turned  down  the  clothes  the  poor 
little  thing  had  wriggled  itself  over  on  its  back,  trying  to 
get  its  breath  like.  It  didn't  die  from  nothing  but  want 
of  breath— that  and  not  being  rightly  fed.  Its  eyes  was 
wide  open,  and  it  seemed  to  be  saying:  'Oh,  what  did 

m 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

you  go  away  and  leave  me  for?'    I  can  hear  them  words 
just  as  plain  as  if  the  little  lips  had  spoke  them." 

Bainbridge  and  Clorinda  drove  up  Seventh  Avenue 
almost  in  silence.  It  was  snowing  and  raining  at  once, 
and  the  only  words  uttered  were  as  to  the  necessity  of 
having  the  windows  of  the  limousine  up  or  down.  They 
were  nearing  the  house  in  Madison  Avenue  when  Clo- 
rinda said,  tremulously: 

"I  don't  see  how  the  mother  could  have  left  the  poor 
little  soul  to  shift  for  herself  like  that." 

Bainbridge  answered  with  the  sad  thoughtfulness  with 
which  he  always  came  away  from  dealings  with  the  poor. 
"That's  probably  because  you  can  hardly  imagine  what 
it  is  for  the  overtaxed  human  heart  to  be  at  the  end  of  its 
resources.  You've  always  got  your  resources  to  fall  back 
upon — resources  of  money,  of  intelligence,  of  friends,  of  a 
vast  upholding  civilization  all  around  you.  You  can't 
conceive  of  yourself  as  positively  not  knowing  which  way 
to  turn  or  what  to  do — with  two  other  children  dependent 
on  you  for  their  supper  to-night  and  their  breakfast  to- 
morrow morning.  There  are  millions  of  the  poor  living 
with  literally  no  margin,  I  won't  say  of  food  and  money, 
but  of  affection  and  thought.  Everything  is  used  up  for 
the  wants  of  every  day.  And  so  when  an  additional  mis- 
fortune, such  as  that  which  happened  to  poor  Pansy, 
comes  on  them,  they  can  only  let  it  come.  They're  like 
the  exhausted  Alpine  traveler  who  hears  the  avalanche 
falling  and  can't  care  enough  to  get  out  of  its  way.  When 
you  see  Pansy's  mother  you'll  find  her  typical  of  thousands 
upon  thousands  of  mothers  all  over  the  world — the 
women  whose  daily  stint  taxes  them  to  the  limit  of  which 
they  are  capable,  and  who  have  no  reserve  with  which 

178 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

to  meet  an  extra  demand.    They're  not  callous;  they've 
only  given  all  they  had." 

"And  we  don't  lift  a  finger  to  help  them!" 
"Some  don't;  others  again.  .  .  .  But  it's  avast  sub- 
ject, one  through  which  we  don't  see  our  way  as  yet. 
Our  attempts  are  too  often  a  mere  scratching  on  the 
surface,  when  we  need  to  get  down  to  the  depths.  While 
we're  afraid  to  go  to  the  depths — and  the  philanthropic 
world  is  afraid  of  it — our  aid  is  more  or  less  thrown  away. 
I'm  coming  to  believe  that  philanthropy  only  aggravates 
the  evil;  that  industrial  readjustments  and  compromises 
between  capital  and  labor  are  no  more  than  new  patches 
on  old  garments,  making  the  rent  worse.  But  so  long  as 
our  civilization  is  unwilling  to  tackle  the  subject  by  the 
right  end — "  He  broke  off,  to  ask:  "Then  you  don't 
think  of  changing  your  mind?" 

She  turned  toward  him,  her  eyes  shining  through  the 
dusk.  "Because  of  what  she's  just  told  us?  Why  should 
I?  It's  what  I  should  have  felt,  and  been  tempted  to  do, 
in  her  place.  I  seem — I  seem  to  have  been  through  it 
all — to  have  had  it  actually  happen  to  me."  A  few 
seconds  went  by  before  she  continued:  "Condemnation 
by  others  is  bad  enough;  but  self-condemnation  is  the 
most  frightful  thing  of  all.  It's  always  with  you;  there's 
no  loophole  by  which  you  can  get  away  from  it.  It's 
because  poor  little  Pansy's  problem  is  at  bottom  so  much 
like  my  own — " 

His  brows  went  up.  "  So  much  like  yours?" 
"Surely  you  must  see— you  of  all  people!— that  money 
and  social  position  have  no  bearing  on  souls.  Her  soul 
and  my  soul—"  As  the  motor  drew  up  to  the  door  she 
prepared  to  descend.  "Come  in,"  she  said,  as  she  gath- 
ered up  her  wraps.  "Tea  will  be  ready,  and  we  can  talk 

179 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

about  it  then.  I  shall  tell  Hindmarsh  not  to  let  any  one 
else  in.  There's  so  much  I  want  to  say  to  you."  She  was 
actually  getting  out  of  the  car,  the  door  of  which  the 
chauffeur  held  open,  as  she  turned  to  say  over  her  shoulder: 
"I've — I've  decided  about — about  what  you  asked  me  on 
Christmas  Eve." 

As  Bainbridge  remembered  this  moment  afterward  his 
mind  seemed  to  stop  thinking  to  enter  on  the  blankness 
of  suspense.  As  to  what  was  before  him  he  could  scarcely 
hazard  a  conjecture.  Since  they  had  last  driven  up  from 
old  Greenwich  Village  together  she  had  held  the  balance 
so  evenly  that  whether  she  told  him  she  could  or  she 
couldn't  marry  him  he  would  feel  it  was  what  he  had 
expected.  All  he  could  do  was  to  brace  himself  inwardly 
to  face  what  he  was  convinced  would  prove  the  great 
issue  of  his  life.  Consciously  he  prepared  himself  for  that 
worst,  out  of  which  he  must  know  how  to  make  the  best. 
If  she  were  to  inform  him  that  she  had  tried  to  bring 
herself  to  it,  but  in  vain,  he  must  still  see  that  in  knowing 
her  at  all,  in  loving  her,  he  was  on  his  way  to  that  Highest 
Possible  which  he  had  always  made  his  aim.  In  this,  as 
he  got  out  of  the  car  and  followed  her  up  the  steps,  his 
spirit  seemed  to  act  while  his  intelligence  stood  still. 

She  went  before  him  swiftly,  speaking  a  few  words  to 
Hindmarsh  at  the  door,  and  proceeding  directly  up  the 
stairs.  He  himself  waited  for  Hindmarsh  to  relieve  him 
of  his  overcoat,  hat,  and  stick.  He  recalled  an  ex- 
change of  friendly  remarks  with  Hindmarsh,  a  slim 
young  Englishman,  of  the  indoor  servant  class,  with  a 
bass  so  deep  as  to  be  ludicrously  out  of  keeping  with 
the  task  of  arranging  teacups  and  passing  plates.  It 
was  perhaps  to  put  off  the  terrific  moment — whether 
of  joy  or  disappointment — as  long  as  possible  that  he 

1 80 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

took  his  time  in  crossing  the  friendly  hall,  and  look- 
ing round  on  it  as  one  who  might  be  seeing  it  for  the 
last  time./\He  noticed  the  shaded  lamp,  a  soft  blur  of 
colored  light,  burning  in  the  empty  library,  the  dark 
opening  to  the  dining-room,  the  bit  of  blue-green  tapestry, 
the  portrait  that  might  have  been  a  Gainsborough.  At 
the  first  turning  of  the  stairs  he  glanced  lovingly  at  the 
cucumber  green  of  the  celadon  jar  on  its  carved  black 
stand,  not  because  he  felt  the  mysterious  appeal  that 
emanates  from  old  Chinese  art,  but  because  the  beautiful 
thing  had  so  often  seen  him  go  up  or  down  in  hope  or 
happiness.  All  the  uncertainty  of  the  prisoner  coming  in 
to  hear  the  life-or-death  verdict  of  the  jury  was  in  his 
footsteps,  in  his  heart,  as  he  continued  his  way  upward. 
Of  one  thing  only  was  he  sure:  Whatever  the  fate,  he 
was  inwardly  prepared  for  it. 

He  had  passed  the  turning  of  the  stairs  when  he  fancied 
he  heard  a  man's  voice  from  the  drawing-room  above. 
Having  gone  up  a  step  or  two  farther,  he  paused  and  made 
himself  sure  of  it.  The  stairs  had  a  second  turning— not 
spacious  and  at  right  angles  to  itself  like  that  which 
made  room  for  the  celadon  jar,  but  a  mere  arc  of  a 
circle  whence  the  upper  hall  and  a  portion  of  the 
drawing-room  were  visible.  Clorinda  was  in  the  por- 
tion of  the  drawing-room  which  was  not  visible;  but 
standing  before  the  fire,  with  a  hand  on  the  white 
marble  of  the  mantelpiece,  and  directly  within  Bain- 
bridge's  range  of  sight,  was  a  man. 

He  was  a  man  whom  Bainbridge  knew  instantly  he  had 
seen  before,  and  yet  was  for  the  moment  unable  to  place. 
He  was  a  tall,  broad-shouldered  man,  with  a  handsome, 
rather  sensuous  face,  on  which  the  mustache  and  im- 

181 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

penal  were  very  slightly  touched  with  gray.  As  Bain- 
bridge  lagged  on  the  stairs  his  immediate  thoughts  were: 
"Where  have  I  seen  him?  What  connection  have  I  with 
him?"  Close  on  these  'questions  came  the  realization: 
"It's  an  unusual  connection;  something  dramatic  and 
romantic."  The  idea  was  no  sooner  in  his  mind  than  the 
name  came  staggering,  as  it  were,  to  his  lips:  "It's — 
it's  Malcolm  Grant." 

Of  the  clarity  of  Bainbridge's  vision  during  the  few 
seconds  it  took  him  to  mount  the  remaining  steps  and 
cross  the  hall  there  could  have  been  no  possibility  of 
record.  In  thinking  it  over  afterward  it  came  to  him 
that  the  difference  wrought  in  his  consciousness  was  as 
instantaneous  as  that  which  came  over  darkness  and 
chaos  when  the  divine  "Let  there  be  light,"  was  com- 
manded. It  was  illuminating — it  was  complete.  It  was 
complete — it  was  in  order.  Nothing  was  wanting;  noth- 
ing was  obscure.  It  was  as  obvious  as  the  visually  pano- 
ramic or  as  lines  in  print. 

Clorinda  was  the  veiled  woman  who  had  come  to  him 
more  than  three  years  previously.  She  had  had  a  lover. 
She  had  described  herself  as  a  sinner. 

Malcom  Grant  had  wished  to  marry  her,  and  had  been 
deterred  by  God  only  knew  what  misgivings  on  his  part 
or  hers. 

During  the  months  since  he,  Bainbridge,  had  known 
her  as  Clorinda  Gildersleeve  she  had  tried  to  reveal  her 
identity — she  was  under  the  impression  that  she  had 
revealed  it. 

The  fact  that  she  had  this  impression  explained  a  hun- 
dred references,  a  hundred  speeches,  that  had  bewildered 
him,  but  which  were  as  clear  to  him  now  as  chaos  was  clear 
when  light  flashed  upon  it. 

182 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

To  her  the  beauty  of  his  asking  her  to  marry  him  had 
been  in  the  fact  that  he  knew. 

Very  well,  then;  he  must  know.  He  had  no  doubt  now 
as  to  what  constituted  the  Highest  Possible.  She  must 
never  learn  from  a  hint  that  should  escape  him,  or  so 
much  as  a  glimmer  in  his  eye,  that  he  hadn't  read  her 
from  the  first. 

Having  come  to  this  consciousness  before  reaching  the 
threshold  of  the  drawing-room,  he  was  able  to  cross  it  as 
one  who  faces  no  more  than  the  commonplace.  Clorinda 
was  still  standing,  a  little  dazed,  perhaps,  but  with  no 
outward  trace  of  embarrassment.  Without  bravado  or 
affectation  of  self-control  she  was  sufficiently  mistress 
of  herself  to  assume  from  the  first  the  fact  that  the  two 
men  had  met  before. 

"You  know  Sir  Malcolm  Grant,"  Bainbridge  heard  her 
saying,  as  he  entered  the  room.  It  reached  him,  too,  as 
if  from  a  long  way  off,  that  she  added:  "He's  passing 
through  New  York  on  his  way  to  buy  horses  for  the 
Canadian  contingent  to  the  British  army,  and  has  been 
good  enough  to  wait  to  see  me." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IT  was  plain  to  Bainbridge  that  Sir  Malcolm  Grant's 
astonishment  at  this  unexpected  meeting  was  not  less 
violent  than  his  own.  During  an  instant  for  which  no 
polite  conventions  or  instincts  of  courtesy  could  possibly 
have  been  sufficient,  the  baronet's  handsome,  rather  ex- 
pressionless face  went  blank.  He  offered  his  hand  me- 
chanically as  Bainbridge  extended  his. 

"I — I  took  the  liberty  of  waiting  for  Mrs.  Gildersleeve," 
he  stammered,  as  though  an  apology  had  been  demanded, 
"when  they  told  me  she  was  expected  home  to  tea." 

"Quite  so,"  Bainbridge  assented,  aloud.  To  himself  he 
was  saying:  "If  Clorinda  marries  me  he'll  think  that  I've 
been  a  traitor." 

And  yet  the  Canadian's  words  gave  him  the  keynote 
he  was  mentally  in  search  of.  The  meeting  was  to  be  on 
the  basis  of  the  simple  sociabilities.  There  were  to  be  no 
explanations,  nor  any  implications  that  each  of  the  three 
held  a  world  of  thoughts  in  reserve.  Bainbridge  was  able, 
therefore,  to  go  on  with  a  series  of  obvious  remarks,  to 
ask  the  baronet  how  long  he  had  been  in  New  York,  and 
to  learn  the  name  of  his  hotel.  In  a  voice  that  seemed  as 
if  it  might  have  been  transmitted  from  another  sphere 
he  heard  Clorinda  say: 

"How  hot  it  is  here!  They'll  bring  tea  in  a  minute. 
Why  don't  we  all  sit  down?" 

184 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

The  heat  of  the  fire  gave  her  an  excuse  for  seating  her- 
self at  a  distance  from  both  her  guests,  almost  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room.  It  made  no  difference,  however, 
to  either  of  the  men,  of  whom  each  dropped  into  an  arm- 
chair near  the  blaze,  too  deeply  preoccupied  to  think  of 
physical  discomforts.  It  was  noteworthy,  too,  that  each 
kept  his  eyes  on  the  other,  with  a  scrutiny  for  which  their 
dull  questions  and  replies  made  no  pretense  of  being  an 
expression. 

"You've  come  straight  from  Montreal?" 

"As  far  as  the  station  is  concerned.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  come  more  directly  from  Valcartier." 

' '  Valcartier  ?    Isn't  that  a  training-camp  ?' ' 

The  Canadian  described  the  vast,  muddy  plain  on 
which  some  thirty  thousand  of  his  compatriots  were  pre- 
paring to  take  part  in  the  struggle  convulsing  the  world. 
He  did  so  graphically  and  with  eyes  glistening.  It  was 
a  theme  that  took  him  out  of  himself.  "We're  not  saying 
much  about  it,"  he  went  on,  "but  we  hope  to  have  fifty 
or  seventy-five  thousand  in  the  field  by  the  end  of  the 
year,  of  whom  thirty  thousand  will  sail  from  Quebec  as 
soon  as  navigation  opens.  Been  recruiting  in  all  parts  of 
Quebec  and  Ontario.  Been  in  the  maritime  provinces,  too. 
They've  their  own  training-camp  in  New  Brunswick — 

"Splendid  that  you're  able  to  work  like  that,"  Bain- 
bridge  interrupted,  in  a  tone  that  tried  not  to  betray  an 
absence  of  thought. 

"Doing  nothing  at  all  as  compared  with  some  fellows," 
Grant  complained  of  himself.  "At  forty-four  I'm  too  old 
to  make  it  worth  while  to  fight,  when  so  many  younger 
chaps  are  keen  to  go.  Be  taking  the  place  of  a  more 
active  man.  Have  had  nothing  but  the  humiliating  job 
of  getting  others  to  do  what  I  shirk  myself.  Only  thing 

13  l8S 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

I've  been  able  to  contribute  is  cash — till  lately  they  dis- 
covered that  I  know  a  thing  or  two  about  horses.  It's 
a  bit  rough  to  feel  yourself  a  slacker  when  half  the  fellows 
you  know  are  shedding  their  blood;  but  it  seems  the  best 
I  can  do." 

In  the  end  Bainbridge  found  it  possible  to  follow  such 
remarks  as  these  with  one  side  of  his  mind  while  with  the 
other  he  confronted  the  seething  mass  of  facts  in  which 
his  destiny  had  become  involved.  As  far  as  he  knew  his 
state  of  mind  he  felt  like  a  man  who  has  been  gallantly 
and  joyously  sailing  over  an  exhilarating  sea  and  sud- 
denly finds  his  ship  sinking.  His  one  clear  bit  of  conscious- 
ness was  of  the  necessity  of  keeping  calm,  of  betraying  no 
overwhelming  sense  of  danger,  of  living  that  particular 
minute  as  a  man  should  live  it,  no  matter  what  was  to 
happen  in  the  next.  The  instinct  to  save  the  women  and 
children,  which  at  such  moments  men  otherwise  quite 
unheroic  find  within  themselves,  enabled  him  to  talk 
casually  with  Malcolm  Grant,  while  Clorinda  had  leisure 
to  take  off  her  gloves  and  lay  them  out  neatly  on  the  table 
beside  her,  unpin  her  veil  and  place  it  with  her  gloves,  and 
otherwise  get  her  bearings. 

As  if  with  a  similar  man-instinct  Malcolm  Grant  kept 
to  the  topic  that  had  been  started  as  the  least  personal 
one  he  could  choose.  It  had  the  advantage  that  to  both 
Bainbridge  and  Clorinda  it  was  new  and  to  some  degree 
arresting. 

To  the  clergyman's  spiritual  insight,  too,  the  Canadian 
was  the  first  instance  of  that  miracle  of  which  he  was 
already  hearing  tales — the  man  transformed,  and  in  some 
measure  ennobled,  by  devotion  to  one  of  the  great  causes 
emphasized  by  the  war.  As  he  sat  silent,  or  asking  no 
more  than  the  questions  that  would  spur  the  other  man 

186 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

on  to  talk,  his  recollections  of  the  scene  in  his  own  study, 
now  of  nearly  two  years  ago,  struggled  up  to  the  surface 
one  by  one.  He  remembered  how  obvious  had  been  in 
this  well-nourished  figure,  this  handsome,  fleshly  face, 
the  traces  of  the  club,  the  race-course,  and  the  place  of 
business.  The  man  had  been  a  fine  animal,  and  little 
more.  He  might  never  have  missed  a  meal,  never  have 
suffered  a  care,  never  have  balanced  a  reflection.  If  in 
the  countenance  the  sensuousness  was  clean,  Anglo-Saxon, 
and  sympathetic,  it  was  sensuousness  all  the  same.  It 
was  of  the  earth  earthy.  Let  us  eat  and  drink,  for  to- 
morrow we  die,  might  have  been  its  motto  at  the  time 
and  its  future  epitaph. 

And  now  there  was  a  change.  It  was  not  merely  that 
the  form  was  more  spare,  the  mouth  perceptibly  graver, 
and  the  eyes  more  thoughtful;  there  was  an  evident  step 
upward  in  the  scale  of  being.  It  was  as  if  a  soul  were 
being  born  where  there  had  been  only  a  body;  as  if  the 
hero  was  making  himself  manifest  where  there  had  been 
nothing  but  a  man.  Even  if  it  was  the  hero  in  will  rather 
than  in  deed,  one  got  in  him  a  glimpse  of  those  never-to- 
be-recorded  heroisms  which  would  forever  make  this 
epoch  memorable,  and  in  which  the  Canadian,  by  the 
sheer  force  of  nationality  and  co-operation,  was  in  some 
sense  a  participant. 

So  the  difficult  minutes  passed  and  Hindmarsh  brought 
the  tea  on  a  silver  tray.  "Put  it  here,  Hindmarsh," 
Clorinda  ordered,  indicating  the  table  beside  her.  "Sir 
Malcolm,  how  shall  I  give  you  yours?" 

Bainbridge  found  himself  gravely  questioning  as  to 
whether  this  preference  made  the  baronet  the  greater 
stranger  or  the  more  honored  guest.  It  was  a  minute  at 
which  hints  that  were  really  nothing  seemed  to  have  a 

187 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

meaning.  There  were  so  many  things  for  him  to  think 
of  that,  for  the  moment,  at  any  rate,  it  was  only  through 
trifles  that  his  mind  could  work.  When  Grant  stepped 
forward  to  take  his  cup  Bainbridge  watched  to  see  whether 
he  and  Clorinda  would  exchange  glances  or  allow  their 
hands  to  touch.  When  they  did  neither  he  reminded 
himself  that  Grant  had  only  wanted  to  marry  her; 
it  was  not  he  who  had  been  her  lover.  "My  God!  she's 
been  a  man's  mistress!"  He  was  obliged  to  repeat 
the  words,  and  repeat  them  again,  in  order  to  assimilate 
the  fact. 

She  had  been  a  man's  mistress — and  he  was  supposed 
to  have  known  it  when  he  asked  her  to  be  his  wife!  She 
had  been  a  man's  mistress — and  he  whose  life  was  devoted 
to  the  sanctities  was  in  love  with  her! 

Whose  mistress  had  she  been? 

The  question  surged  up  slowly  out  of  the  heaving  chaos 
of  his  spirit,  only  to  recede  and  go  down  again.  It  re- 
ceded and  went  down  because  Clorinda  said,  "Mr.  Bain- 
bridge,  I  think  you  like  it  weak,  with  cream  and  no 
sugar." 

She  made  the  statement  looking  at  him  —  looking 
at  him  confidently — looking  at  him  significantly,  and 
with  the  faintest,  yet  most  eloquent,  glimmer  of  a 
smile. 

He  forced  himself  to  return  the  smile  and  decline  the 
tea,  while  it  came  back  to  him  that  the  veiled  woman  had 
said:  "There  was  a  man!  ...  if  he  had  only  insisted 
more  ..."  And  again:  "What  really  happened  was 
with  some  one  else."  How  many  men  had  there  been, 
and  how  far  down  did  his  own  name  come  on  the  list  ? 

He  could  not  have  said  that  as  yet  he  was  suffering 
acutely.  He  was  too  bewildered  for  active  suffering,  too 

188 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

confused.  The  thing  that  was  to  make  him  suffer  was 
too  monstrous.  To  connect  it  with  the  high-bred 
woman,  whose  thin,  graceful  hands  were  moving  so 
deftly  among  the  objects  of  silver  and  porcelain,  was 
too  great  a  strain  on  the  faculties.  It  was  absurd, 
incredible,  and  yet  .  .  . 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  said,  as  Grant  seated  himself  near 
her,  "that  we  must  seem  very  idle  and  callous  to  workers 
like  you." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  he  replied,  readily.  "We're  very 
much  touched  by  your  sympathy  and  all  your  help." 

"It's  true,"  she  said,  pensively,  "that,  one's  friends' 
troubles  are  not  one's  own  troubles,  however  keenly  one 
may  sympathize.  To  those  engaged  in  the  fight  that  fact 
must  give  this  whole  country  an  air  of  aloofness,  but  I 
assure  you  some  of  us  are  very  deeply  moved." 

It  was  the  inevitable  subject,  and  as  Bainbridge  lis- 
tened he  was  thankful  that  it  should  be  so  absorbing.  No 
private  drama  could  be  thrilling  enough  to  blunt  the 
appeal  which  all  mankind  seemed  to  be  putting  forth 
simultaneously,  so  that  there  was  neither  affectation  nor 
self-compulsion  in  the  ease  with  which  Clorinda  and  her 
guest  were  able  to  dismiss  other  concerns  and  give  them- 
selves up  to  the  topic. 

Outwardly  Bainbridge  found  her  little  short  of  marvel- 
ous. Except  for  the  first  few  minutes  of  seeming  dazed 
at  finding  her  unexpected  visitor,  she  had  remained 
mistress  of  herself.  She  had  neither  blanched  nor  be- 
trayed undue  self-consciousness.  Only  a  woman  with 
some  exceptional  blend  of  courage  in  the  character  could 
have  so  borne  herself  in  the  face  of  the  actualities.  As 
far  as  the  eye  could  judge,  she  was  as  calm,  as  simple,  as 
if  Malcolm  Grant  had  never  impressed  her  imagination, 

189 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

as  if  there  had  never  been  on  his  part  some  humiliating 
flight,  or  on  hers  some  strange  refusal.  Was  it  his  flight 
or  her  refusal  that  had  brought  matters  between  them 
to  an  end,  after  the  interview  between  Grant  and  himself, 
in  the  study  in  West  Forty-eighth  Street,  two  years 
before?  It  had  been  the  one  or  the  other — but  which? 

While  he  tried  to  postpone  all  such  speculation  to  a 
minute  when  he  could  give  himself  up  to  it  without 
restraint,  it  forced  itself,  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  keep  it 
back.  Who  was  she?  What  was  she?  What  extraordi- 
nary episodes  had  she  passed  through  in  that  life  of  hers 
that  seemed  outwardly  so  placid  and  yet  so  violently 
disturbed  within?  How  was  he  to  subdue  this  flaming 
thing  to  his  own  patient  round  of  well-doing  as  a  clergy- 
man? Was  it  possible  to  think  of  her  as  going  regularly 
to  church  and  being  a  gentle,  comforting  hostess  to  dull 
parishioners?  Raging  fire  she  had  called  herself.  "I 
feel  as  if  my  love  would  scorch  you — would  burn  you  up," 
she  had  said  on  Christmas  Eve.  Well,  would  it?  Could 
it?  Was  there  something  baleful  in  her  against  which  his 
spiritual  defenses  wouldn't  be  able  to  hold  out?  Or  was 
there  a  way,  a  way  he  didn't  see  as  yet,  by  which  the 
Highest  Possible  might  still  be  reached,  and  be  reached 
through  her,  in  spite  of  everything?  He  had  said  to  him- 
self, on  entering  the  house,  that  whatever  the  fate  in  store 
for  him  he  was  prepared  for  it;  but  had  he  been  prepared 
for  this? 

Oddly  enough,  it  was  preparation  of  which  they  were 
speaking  at  the  tea-table  as  their  words  floated  over  to 
him  in  his  place  by  the  fire. 

"Rum  go,"  Grant  was  saying,  as  he  munched  a  slice 
of  buttered  toast,  "my  being  off  to  Kentucky  like  this. 
Sort  of  thing  I  never  expected." 

190 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

Clorinda  responded  sympathetically.  "But  you  must 
be  very  glad  to  be  doing  it.  At  a  time  like  the  present 
anything  by  which  one  can  be  useful  is  a  positive  boon 
to  oneself."  She  added,  thoughtfully:  "And  as  far  as 
that  goes,  isn't  all  of  life  a  rum  go?  I  can't  think  of  any- 
thing that  will  upset  calculation,  and  defy  it,  so  skilfully 
as  the  march  of  events." 

"Thing  is,"  the  baronet  stated,  as  though  he  were 
distilling  an  original  bit  of  wisdom,  "to  be  prepared 
for  the  unexpected,  which  is  what  I'm  afraid  good  old 
England—" 

"Yes,  but  what  is  being  prepared? — for  anything? — " 

"Well,  in  England's  case — " 

"Oh,  I  know  what  it  would  have  been  in  England's 
case — guns  and  shells  and  shoes  and  that  sort  of  thing. 
But  I'm  thinking  of  ourselves.  One  gets  so  outmanceu- 
vered  by  life,  so  to  speak,  so  taken  by  surprise.  It's  as  if 
we  were  the  prey  of  some  grim  and  sportive  power  that 
had  nothing  better  to  do  than  play  tricks  on  us." 

Sir  Malcolm  seemed  to  ponder  the  possible  bearing  of 
this  speech  on  the  present  curious  meeting.  "Of  course 
one  year  is  different  from  another,"  he  conceded. 

"Oh,  but  it's  the  ways  in  which  it's  different!  If  one 
could  only  guess  beforehand,  or  be  ready.  You  can't 
even  reckon  or  forecast  with  any  likelihood  of  being 
right." 

That  Grant  was  searching  for  hidden  meanings  Bain- 
bridge  was  sure  from  the  way  in  which  he  looked  at  her. 
"Isn't  it  a  matter  of  reaping  what  one  sows?" 

"No,  because  one  doesn't  reap  it — not  as  far  as  I  can 
see.  One  sows  an  acorn,  let  us  say,  and  one  reaps  the 
deadly  nightshade." 

"Why  not  say  a  rose?" 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

Bainbridge  saw  her  look  toward  himself,  with  eyes 
curiously  shining.  "Well,  I'm  willing  to  say  a  rose — on 
certain  occasions.  My  point  is  only  that  you  never 
can  tell.  Whether  it's  a  rose  or  the  deadly  night- 
shade, it's  equally  surprising  when  you're  looking  for 
an  oak." 

"And  would  you  rather  have  the  oak?" 

"One  would  rather  have  what  one  is  prepared  for, 
wouldn't  one?  One  doesn't  always  want  to  be  hurled 
about,  from  one  astonishing  situation  into  another — " 

It  was  Grant  who  threw  the  personal  note  into  this. 
"I  hope  you  don't  mean  my  coming  and  waiting  for  you 
this  afternoon.  It  was  a  bit  cheeky  on  my  part — " 

"Oh  dear,  no,"  she  tried  to  answer  lightly.  "I'm  so 
glad  you  did." 

"You  see,  I've  only  this  one  day — just  now." 

"Does  that  mean  that  you'll  be  coming  back?" 

"Not  exactly  coming  back;  but  they  may  send  me 
here  as  a  sort  of  agent  to  the  Canadian  government — 
for  buying  supplies.  New  York's  the  most  central  point 
for  that,  and  they've  asked  me  how  I  should  like  the  job. 
I  told  them  to  move  me  about  as  if  I  was  an  inanimate 
object."  A  new  flash  came  into  his  eye  as  he  added, 
quietly:  "All  I  am  and  all  I  have  is  at  the  country's 
disposal." 

The  flash  was  answered  like  a  signal  by  one  from  her. 
Bainbridge  knew  how  this  sort  of  engagement  in  a  great 
adventure  would  appeal  to  her.  "Of  course,"  she  re- 
sponded, warmly.  "It  would  be — but  it's  splendid,  isn't 
it?  It's  like  taking  part  in  a  great  sport,  which  is  more 
than  a  sport  because  it's  vital.  If  this  country  went  to 
war  it  might  revive  some  of  our  old-time  patriotism.  I 
should  like  to  hear  a  little  of  that  now,  after  so  many 

193 


y 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

years  of  hearing  our  own  people  condemning  our  own 
country.  And  yet,"  she  reflected,  "it  comes  back  to  the 
personal,  doesn't  it?  Life  is  so  amazing.  It  sends  its 
sorrows — and  its  joys — from  quarters  whence  one  so  little 
looks  for  them.  That's  what  impresses  me.  I  keep  won- 
dering whether  we're  mere  flotsam  and  jetsam,  that  have 
nothing  to  do  but  toss  in  the  current;  or  whether  there's 
anything  that  will  steady  us  and  take  us  along  a  definite 
road  with  some  amount  of  confidence."  She  glanced 
toward  the  fire,  so  as  to  include  her  other  guest.  "Mr. 
Bainbridge,  do  you  know?" 

The  question  forced  Bainbridge  out  of  himself,  though 
he  was  not  ready  to  join  in  a  conversation  in  which  he 
had  no  heart.  Moreover,  he  divined  on  Grant's  part  an 
impatience  of  his  presence,  while  he  considered  it  only 
fair  to  give  his  rival — if  they  were  rivals — the  one  oppor- 
tunity that  could  come  to  him.  "Do  I  know  what?"  he 
managed  to  ask,  after  a  second  in  which  he  seemed  to 
stare  at  her  unintelligently. 

"  Do  you  know  how  we,  as  individuals,  can  be  prepared 
to  meet  the  surprises  of  which  life  keeps  such  a  vast 
variety  in  store  for  us?" 

Bainbridge  took  up  the  theme  only  because  he  was 
obliged  to.  "What  do  you  mean  by  being  prepared?  If 
it's  the  elimination  of  fear — " 

"Well,  perhaps  it  is,"  she  agreed,  promptly.  "I  never 
thought  of  it  before;  but  if  preparedness,  as  the  word 
begins  to  go,  means  anything,  it  means  that.  The  elimi- 
nation of  fear!  If  we  could  only  reach  that  state,  person- 
ally and  nationally!  But  we  can't,  can  we?" 

Again  Bainbridge  answered  only  because  he  could  see 
she  spoke  a  little  feverishly,  and  he  was  eager  to  do  his 
part  in  steering  the  conversation  safely.  "We  can,  if  we 

193 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

go  by  the  right  road — which  is  what  very  few  people  will 
do." 

"The  right  road  to  eliminate  fear?  Why,  surely,  if 
there  is  such  a  road  it's  the  one  we  should  all  like  to  take. 
If  we  weren't  afraid,  it  would  be  because  we  knew  we 
were  safe;  and  if  we  were  safe" — she  laughed  with  the 
slightest  hint  of  excitement — "if  we  were  safe,  why  it 
would  be — it  would  be  bliss.  Do  tell  us  how  to  find  the 
way." 

"Not  now."  He  endeavored  to  smile,  rising  as  he 
spoke.  By  way  of  getting  out  of  the  room  still  on  the 
wholly  non-personal  note  he  continued,  as  he  went  forward 
to  take  his  leave:  "Preparedness  isn't  a  matter  of  ex- 
planation so  much  as  it's  one  of  life.  You  can't  prepare 
by  fits  and  starts;  neither  can  you  prepare  for  one  thing 
and  neglect  another.  It's  got  to  be  a  big  business  and  a 
thorough  business  and  a  long  business;  but  when  you've 
given  yourself  up  to  it — •" 

"Then  what?"  the  Canadian  asked,  looking  up  at  the 
clergyman,  who  now  stood  beside  the  table. 

"Then  you  can  feel  tolerably — secure." 

"But  secure  against — how  much?"  came  from  Clorinda. 

The  reply  was  more  to  himself  and  his  own  inner  needs 
than  to  his  companions,  as  Bainbridge  said:  "Against 
practically  all  we  have  to  dread."  With  deliberation, 
because  he  was  thinking  of  himself,  he  went  on  to  enu- 
merate: "Against — against  horror — against  difficult  situ- 
ations— against  loss  of  nerve — against  not  knowing  the 
right  thing  to  do — and — and — "  his  voice  dropped 
slightly — "against  not  being  able  to  do  it." 

Clorinda  clasped  her  hands.  "Ah,  but  that  would  be 
heaven!" 

"Well,  yes,"  Bainbridge  agreed.     "If  the  kingdom  of 


AS   BAINBRIDGE  TURNED  AGAIN   HE   SAW   MALCOLM   GRANT   RISE   FROM 

HIS  CHAIR  WITH  A  LOOK  WHICH  COULD  ONLY  BE  DESCRIBED 

AS  THUNDEROUS 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

heaven  is  within  you,  why  then,  as  you  said  just  now,  you 
can  be  safe."  He  held  out  his  hand.  "I'm  afraid  I  must 
go  now — " 

"Oh,  don't!"  There  was  a  plea  in  her  tone  which 
sounded  as  if  she  felt  herself  in  the  presence  of  some  form 
of  danger.  Her  own  ear  seemed  to  have  caught  it,  for 
she  added,  at  once:  "Do  stay  and  talk  to  us.  You've 
said  there  was  a  road  to  safety;  but  you  haven't  told  us 
what  it  is.  Won't  you?" 

"  Not  now.  Some  other  time — if  you  should  really  want 
to  know.  Don't  ask  me  unless  you  do;  and  it's  probable 
you  don't." 

Still  eager  to  detain  him,  she  exclaimed:  "Oh,  why  do 
you  say  that?" 

"Because  very  few  people  do  want  to  know  it.  We're 
all  agog  for  preparedness  as  long  as  it's  a  toy  or  a  fad; 
but  we're  a  volatile  people  both  nationally  and  individ- 
ually. We're  subject  to  hysteria,  and  so  we  make  our 
efforts-  mere  flashes  in  the  pan.  Real  preparation  is  con- 
tinuous and  basic;  and  the  continuous  and  basic  are  what 
most  of  us  don't  want.  But,  if  you'll  excuse  me,  I  really 
must  be  off  ..." 

He  had  forced  his  farewells  and  turned  to  make  his 
way  to  the  door,  when  he  heard  Clorinda  say,  with  a  dear 
precision  of  tone  which  was  in  itself  a  token  of  distress, 
and  possibly  of  something  more:  "Perhaps  I  ought  to 
tell  Sir  Malcolm  Grant  before  you  go  away  that  we — Mr. 
Bainbridge  and  I — are — are  engaged" — she  hesitated  an 
instant  before  adding,  as  if  to  make  herself  irrevocably 
understood — "to  be  married." 

As  Bainbridge  turned  again  he  saw  Malcolm  Grant 
rise  from  his  chair  with  a  look  which  could  only  be  de- 
scribed as  thunderous.  It  was  directed  not  so  much 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

toward  Clorinda   as   to  Bainbridge  himself.     "Then  I 
suppose  I  must  congratulate  you  both." 

The  sincerity  of  the  words  was  contradicted  by  the 
anger  which  seemed  to  shake  the  Canadian's  huge  person 
— an  anger  before  which  Clorinda  momentarily  quailed, 
rising  and  seeming  to  shrink  from  the  baronet's  proffered 
hand. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ON  his  way  home  Bainbridge  dropped  in  at  Grant's 
hotel,  and  wrote: 

DEAR  SIR  MALCOLM  GRANT, — If  you  are  at  leisure  this 
evening  may  I  ask  you  to  look  in  on  me  at  my  house,  as  I  have 
something  of  importance  to  say? 

Yours  sincerely, 

ARTHUR  BAINBRIDGE. 

At  half  past  eight  the  Canadian  arrived.  That  during 
the  past  two  or  three  hours  he  had  gone  through  some 
violent  emotion  Bainbridge  could  see  from  his  dark- 
streaked  pallor  as  well  as  from  the  hunched,  weighted 
carriage  of  his  shoulders.  "I  got  your  note,"  was  his 
only  form  of  greeting  as  he  strode  into  the  room  and 
stood  still. 

"I'm  glad  you've  come,"  Bainbridge  said,  quietly. 
"There  are  two  or  three  things  I  wanted  to  say." 

And  yet  they  were  seated  for  some  minutes  on  either 
side  of  the  smoldering  fire,  in  the  relative  positions  of 
two  years  earlier,  before  Bainbridge  had  mastered  himself 
sufficiently  to  begin.  "I  want  you  to  know,"  he  forced 
himself  to  say  then,  "that  anything  that's  new  and — 
and  astonishing  to  you  in  our  present  situation  is  just  as 
new  and  astonishing  to  me." 

The  expression  Bainbridge  called  thunderous  had  not 
left  the  banker's  face.  It  hung  there  like  a  great  cloud, 

197 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

lowering  and  full  of  storm.     "If  you  want  me  to 
anything,"  Grant  said  at  last,  "you'll  have  to  speak  more 
plainly." 

"  I  don't  want  to  speak  more  plainly  than  I  can  help — " 

"Hasn't  the  time  for  delicate  niceties  gone  by?" 

"Possibly;  but  not  the  time  for  sympathetic  considera- 
tion— for  every  one  concerned." 

"Oh,  sympathetic  consideration!    If  it's  only  that — ' 

"If  it's  only  that  we  don't  gain  much;  but  we  do  get 
a  point  of  view.  The  important  thing  seems  to  me  that, 
in  our  present  curious  and  difficult  conjuncture,  all  three 
of  us — you,  Clorinda,  and  myself — should  take  the  right 
attitude  from  the  start." 

The  visitor  towered  in  his  arm-chair,  his  hands  on  his 
hips.  "If  you  think  I'm  blaming  any  one,  I'm  not — 
nobody  but  myself." 

"As  to  that,  of  course,  I've  nothing  to  say.  I  don't 
know  what  reason  you  have  for  blaming  yourself — " 

"I've  the  reason,"  Grant  declared,  with  the  brutality 
that  comes  of  suffering,  "that  I  didn't  take  her  when  I 
could  have  had  her." 

Bainbridge  felt  as  if  he  had  recoiled  from  a  blow, 
though  outwardly  he  maintained  his  quietness  of  bearing. 
"Ah?  You  could  have — have  had  her?" 

"I  could — if  I'd  gone  the  right  way  to  work." 

"And — and  you  didn't — go  the  right  way  to  work?" 

"No." 

The  monosyllable  was  emphatic,  so  emphatic  that  it 
seemed  to  cut  the  conversation  short.  A  long  minute 
went  by  before  Bainbridge  could  resume.  "As  to  that 
you  may  tell  me  as  much  or  as  little  as  you  choose.  I 
know  that  something  must  have  happened  between  you, 
after  you  left  this  house  two  years  ago — or  that  you  had 

198 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

reasons  of  your  own  for  —  for  not  wanting  anything 
to  happen  at  all.  I  merely  beg  you  to  understand 
that—" 

But  Grant  had  no  attention  .to  spare  for  what  was  not 
the  aching  and  reproach  within  himself.  "She'd  have 
taken  me  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  way  I  put  it." 

Being  again  taken  by  surprise,  Bainbridge  was  obliged 
to  reflect.  "I  suppose  the  way  of  putting  it  could  have 
had  no  importance  if  it  hadn't  betrayed  a  point  of  view. 
I've  forgotten  what  I  said  the  last  time  we  talked  the 
matter  over  in  this  room;  but  I  fancy  I  must  have  told 
you  that  your  own  state  of  mind  would  be,  as  much  as 
anything,  the  determining  factor  of  your  success — or  of 
the  lack  of  it." 

"My  state  of  mind  was  what  any  other  man's  would 
have  been  in  the  same  set  of  circumstances." 

"I  don't  think  we  can  judge  by  that.  Each  of  us  has 
his  own  problem;  and  each  man's  problem  is  unique. 
In  its  working  out  we  have  to  stand  or  fall  alone.  As  far 
as  I  remember  what  you  said,  you  accepted  accepted 
standards;  and  accepted  standards  generally  have  to  be 
modified  to  meet  an  individual's  need." 

"I  accepted  accepted  standards  only  to  the  extent  of 
setting  them  aside." 

"Because  of  anything  I  said?" 

"No;  because  you  didn't  say  anything — decisive.  She 
sent  me  to  you;  but  you  wouldn't  speak." 

"Yes;  I  remember  now.  I  didn't  feel  at  liberty  to 
speak.  I  recall,  too,  that  you  showed  an  inclination  to— 
to  draw  certain  conclusions  of  your  own — " 

"In  which  I  was  right."  Having  hesitated  a  minute,  he 
added,  brusquely,  "She  told  me  so." 

"  Indeed?" 

199 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"And  I  told  her  I'd — I'd  marry  her  if  she  was — if  she 
was  in  the  gutter." 

Bainbridge  stirred,  leaning  forward  eagerly  in  his  seat. 
"And  she—?" 

"She  said  she  wouldn't  marry  me — if  I  were  on  a 
throne." 

"And  were  you  surprised  at  that?" 

"I  was— then." 

"But  you  wouldn't  be  now.  Is  that  what  you 
mean?" 

"I'm  two  years  older,  and — hang  it  all! — the  war  has 
been  an  eye-opener  in  some  respects." 

"In  showing  us  the  difference  between  accepted  stand- 
ards and  real  ones.  Is  that  it?" 

"In  showing  us  that  some  things  are  more  important 
than  others,  and  that  we've  often  thrown  the  weight  into 
the  wrong  scale.  But  what's  the  use  of  talking?  She's 
going  to  marry  you — " 

"She  may  be  going  to  marry  me — but  even  so  she  can't 
do  it  without  some  inner  reference  to  you." 

"She  would  have  done  it  without  any  inner  reference 
to  me  if  I  hadn't  turned  up — what?" 

"But  you've  turned  up.    That's  the  main  thing." 

"It  may  be  the  main  thing  to  me;  but  it  can't  make 
any  difference  to  you  or  her." 

"Then  you  think  that,  with  three  people  so  intimately 
involved  as  we  are,  the  main  thing  for  one  can  pass  over 
the  other  two  and  have  no  effect?" 

"What  effect  can  it  have?" 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  know,  beyond  the  fact  that  we 
need  have  no  personal  ill  will.  Since  it's  a  moral  axiom 
that  whatever  blesses  one  blesses  all,  I  can't  be  happy  at 
the  price  of  your  unhappiness — " 

200 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"But  I  can  be  unhappy  at  the  price  of  my  own  damned 
folly,  can't  I?" 

Bainbridge  responded  to  this  with  some  deliberation. 
"Neither  happiness  nor  unhappiness  springs  from  facts 
so  much  as  from  our  way  of  facing  them.  The  only 
reason  for  being  wretched  over  one's  own  damned  folly 
is  in  seeing  nothing  but  folly  as  the  issue." 

"I  do  see  nothing  but  folly  as  the  issue,  since  I  see — 
this." 

"And  of — of  this  you  don't  see  the  consequences  as 
yet — you  don't  see  the  end." 

"Ah,  don't  come  that  over  me,  for  God's  sake!  I  know 
the  sort  of  thing  you  want  to  say — that  it  may  be  all  for 
the  best.  Why,  man,  she — she  belongs  to  me;  we  were 
made  for  each  other." 

Bainbridge  seemed  to  study  the  tips  of  his  fingers, 
which  he  fitted  together.  "Perhaps  that  may  not  be  as 
obvious  to  others — to  her,  for  example — or  even  to  me — 
as  it  seems  to  you;  but  even  if  it  was — " 

"She'd  have  married  me,"  Grant  broke  out,  hoarsely, 
"if  I  hadn't  used  that  confounded  expression.  I  hurt  her 
pride." 

"You  did  more  than  that;  you  destroyed  your  own 
vision." 

Grant  stared  vacantly.    "My  own  vision?" 

"Your  conception  of  the  woman  whom  you  wanted— 
and  whom  apparently  you  still  want — as  your  wife.  Once 
you  had  degraded  that — " 

"That  was  done  for  when  I  found  you  knew  something 
about  her  you  wouldn't  tell  me.  When  I  went  back  to 
her  and  told  her  that,  she  said— she  said  she'd  tell  me 
herself." 

"And  you  say  she  did?" 

14  201 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

"God,  yes!  Finest  thing  I  ever  saw.  No  scene  in  a 
play  ever  came  up  to  it.  She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  and  told  me" — he  swallowed  hard — "told  me  she — 
she'd  lived  with  a  chap  as  his — his  mistress — for  the  best 
part  of  two  years." 

Bainbridge  bowed  his  head.  On  another  man's  lips  the 
words  were  cruder,  crueler,  than  when  merely  uttered 
silently  within  his  own  heart.  They  lifted  Clorinda  before 
the  world,  pilloried  and  despised.  He  asked  himself  if  he 
had  done  right  in  refusing  Grant  the  information  that 
would  have  spared  her  the  task  of  making  this  confession 
for  herself.  By  the  time  he  had  assured  himself  that  in 
that  he  had  had  no  choice,  Grant  went  on  again. 

"I  had  my  chance  then,"  he  declared,  speaking  with 
parched  lips.  "If  I  could  have  played  up  in  the  way — 
the  way  she  wanted,  she — she'd  have  jumped  at  me.  I 
should  have  sworn  she  was  as  much  in  love  with  me  as  I 
was  with  her — up  to  then.  If  I  hadn't  been — " 

The  habit  of  the  confessional  impelled  Bainbridge  to 
assist  the  penitent  when  in  difficulties  for  words.  He 
spoke  with  head  still  bowed,  his  chin  resting  on  his  inter- 
locked fingers.  Without  saying  so  to  himself,  he  found 
the  stare  of  the  big,  upright  man,  stuttering  out  his  pain 
on  the  other  side  of  the  fireplace,  impossible  to  endure. 
"If  you  hadn't  been  what?"  he  asked,  when  Grant  found 
himself  unable  to  go  on. 

"If  I  hadn't  been  a  crazy  fool.  That's  what  I  was — a 
fool — and  crazy.  I  seemed  to  want  to  attack  her,  like,  a 
bear  with  a  shot  in  its  body.  I  said  it.  I  said  it  just  as 
an  animal  might  make  a  blind  rush,  because  it's  been 
maddened.  I  didn't  mean  everything  it — it  implied." 

"And  yet,  in  a  way,  you  did." 

Grant  accepted  this.  "I — I  suppose  so,"  he  admitted, 

202 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

humbly.  "I  didn't  see  her  as — as  I  saw  her  after 
I  got  away.  When  she  told  me  all  that,  I  thought  of 
her  as — " 

"You  needn't  tell  me  what  you  thought  of  her  as.  It's 
enough  to  know  that  when  you  got  away  you  saw  you 
were  wrong.  What  I  don't  understand  is  why,  if  you 
felt  that,  you  never  came  back  to  tell  her  so." 

"By  George!  she  showed  me  to  the  door!"  he  blurted 
out,  with  a  kind  of  naivete'.  "I  wasn't  used  to  that  sort 
of  politeness." 

"So  that  if  you  hurt  her  pride  she  rounded  on  yours." 

"She  rang  her  bell.  When  that  tall  footman  came — 
the  fellow  with  a  voice  like  a  bass  drum — she  said,  'Hind- 
marsh,  bring  Sir  Malcolm  Grant  his  hat  and  stick.'  She 
couldn't  go  much  further — what?  I'd  have  come  back  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  that." 

"And  yet  you've  come  back  now?" 

"Because  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer.  I've  tried — 
the  Lord  knows  I've  tried.  It  was  easier  in  the  first 
months  than  it  was  later.  When  war  began — well,  that 
threw  us  all  on  our  backs — what?  We  got  down  to  hard 
pan — to  what  you  call  the  real  standard — not  the  ac- 
cepted one.  As  far  as" — he  gulped,  till  he  could  control 
his  voice — "as  far  as  I've  got  a  real  standard  it's — it's 
somehow  connected  with — with  her." 

Bainbridge  mused  for  a  while  in  silence.  When  he 
spoke  it  was  quietly  and  without  raising  his  eyes.  "Why 
do  you  say  that  to  me? — now?" 

The  reply  was  prompt  and  naive,  like  so  much  else 
about  this  big,  elemental  man.  "Because  you're  in 
wrong,  old  boy.  You  won't  make  a  go  of  it." 

It  was  Bainbridge's  turn  to  look  up  and  stare.  ' '  Making 
a  go  of  it,"  he  said,  after  a  brief  space  of  thinking,  "is 

203 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

secondary.    If  one  does  what's  right  for  the  minute,  the 
making  a  go  of  it  will  take  care  of  itself." 

The  thunder  of  the  voice  recalled  to  Bainbridge  the 
simile  just  used  of  the  rush  of  an  animal  in  pain.  "And 
you  call  this  right?" 

"It  may  not  seem  right  to  you — " 

"You  can  bet  your  life  it  doesn't." 

"If  that's  because  you  think  I  didn't  play  fair — " 

"I  don't  go  as  far  as  that.  I  can't  help  saying  that  it 
seems  to  me,  well,  damned  queer,  if  you'll  excuse  the  ex- 
pression"—  Bainbridge  nodded — "that  after  all  you  said 
to  me  that  day,  and  didn't  say — didn't  say,  mind  you — 
I  should  come  back  here  and  find  you — find  you  in  pos- 
session, so  to  speak.  It  looks  as  if  you'd  taken  my  tip 
and  worked  it  against  me." 

"That's  what  I  was  afraid  of;  and  we  sha'n't  be  able 
to  start  right  unless  you  know  the  truth.  If  you're 
obliged  to  add  the  sense  that  you've  been  wronged  to 
what  you  have  to  suffer  otherwise — " 

"Oh,  I  don't  say  wronged.  I  suppose  that  if  I  stepped 
out  you  had  a  right  to  step  in,  even  if,  for  a  clergyman — ' 

"But  I  didn't  step  in — in  the  way  you  mean."  He 
waited  a  minute  before  saying,  gently:  "I  didn't  know 
that  the  veiled  lady  who  came  to  see  me,  now  nearly  four 
years  ago,  and  the  lady  who  has  promised  to  be  my  wife 
were  one  and  the  same  person  till — till  this  afternoon." 

Grant  bent  forward,  his  hands  on  his  knees.  His  atti- 
tude was  that  of  a  man  trying  to  take  in  words  beyond 
his  power  of  comprehension.  "You — you  didn't  know — 
what?" 

Bainbridge  repeated  his  statement,  putting  it  as 
simply  as  he  could. 

Canadian  'raised  himself  and  fell  back  jjito  tt|e 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

depths  of  his  chair.    "Good  God!    So  you  were  caught 
in  a  trap!" 

"No.    The  unexpected  isn't  necessarily  a  trap." 

Grant  asked  his  question  as  a  man  who  feels  that  much 
may  hang  on  the  answer.  "But  now  that  you  know  it — 
what  difference  will  it  make?" 

"None.     Why  should  it?" 

"But,  man—" 

"Am  I  doing  anything  you  wouldn't  do  yourself?" 

"I'm  not — not  a  clergyman.    And  even  I,  at  first — ' 

"Is  there  any  reason  why  a  clergyman  should  be  less 
honorable  than  another  man?" 

"There's  a  reason  why  he  should — should  set  a  high 
example." 

"And  what  would  be  a  high  example — in  this  case?" 

"Surely  it  wouldn't  be  to  marry— marry  a  woman— 

Bainbridge  helped  him  out.  "Marry  a  woman  who 
has  admitted  to  us  both  that  she's  —  a  sinner.  Is 
that  it?" 

Grant  nodded  an  assent. 

"But  what's  a  sinner?" 

"A  sinner  is  a  person  who  has  done  something  wrong— 
what?  And  when  it's  a  woman — " 

"You  can  think  of  only  one  kind  of  wrong.  But  what 
of  you — and  of  me?" 

"We're  not  women." 

"But  we've  sinned.  It's  possible  that  we  may  have 
sinned  in  just  the  way  that  she  has." 

"But  we're  men." 

"What  difference  does  that  make?" 

"It  makes  all  the  difference.  I  know  that  some  people 
talk  of  one  law  for  both  men  and  women;  but  you  can't 

make  it  work." 

205 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"But  that's  just  the  point.  In  my  case  I  mean  to  make 
it  work." 

The  baronet  struck  his  knee  with  his  closed  fist,  with 
some  emphasis.  "My  dear  sir,  you  won't;  you  can't; 
it's  not  in  nature." 

"But  if  it's  in  my  nature — " 

Grant  shook  his  head  violently.  If  there  had  been 
mirth  in  the  inarticulate  sound  that  broke  from  his  lips 
he  might  be  said  to  have  laughed.  "But  it's  not.  It's 
not  in  any  man's  nature.  If  he  thinks  it  is — " 

"You  mean  that  what  can  be  wrong  for  the  woman  can 
be  right — or  almost  right — for  the  man." 

"That's  about  it." 

"And  yet  we  have  a  case  which  most  of  us  would  con- 
sider to  have  some  authority  in  which  it  wasn't  treated 
so.  It's  a  case,  too,  which  the  general  concensus  of 
human  opinion  holds  to  have  been  dealt  with  supremely 
well." 

By  his  looks  and  his  silence  Grant  appeared  to  ask 
what  case. 

"There  was  a  woman  taken  in  adultery  and  brought 
before  One  whom  I  fancy  you  and  I  both  revere.  Those 
who  brought  her  were  men.  Except  for  herself  there 
were  only  men  in  the  company.  And  yet  it  was  to  them, 
to  this  group  composed  entirely  of  men,  that  the  Saviour 
said,  'He  that  is  without  sin  among  you  let  him  first  cast 
a  stone  at  her.'  He  made  no  distinction  between  their 
sin  and  hers.  They  themselves  saw  no  distinction,  for 
one  by  one  they  went  out  and  left  her  there.  It  seems 
to  me,"  he  concluded,  "that  we  may  be  like  them." 

In  Grant's  tone  there  was  a  grievance — there  was 
something  shocked.  "Oh,  if  you're  going  to  bring  that 
into  affairs  like  yours  and  mine — " 

206 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

"I  don't  need  to  bring  it  in;  I  take  it  for  granted  that 
it  is  there.  I  also  take  it  for  granted  that  we  get  the 
keynote  of  our  conduct  toward  sinners  of  every  kind  when 
the  same  speaker  goes  on  to  say:  'Neither  do  I  condemn 
thee;  go  and  sin  no  more.'  It's  the  sinning  no  more  that 
forms  the  important  condition;  and  it's  also  the  condition 
which  the — the  lady  of  whom  we're  speaking  has  fulfilled." 
He  continued  while  Grant  rose  heavily  to  take  his  stand 
with  his  back  to  the  dying  fire:  "Your  own  attitude 
toward  her  is  something  I  don't  clearly  see." 

The  Canadian  took  his  time  in  replying.  "My 
attitude's  all  right,"  he  declared,  moodily,  when  he 
considered  he  had  thought  the  matter  out.  "I  can't 
talk  as  well  as  you,  but  I  know  what  I  feel.  Toward 
her  I'm  all  right." 

"Then  I  can  only  be  gratified  by  your  conviction." 

Grant  surveyed  the  carpet,  the  hearth-rug,  and  his 
boots.  "It's  the  position,"  he  said  at  last,  still  looking 
at  the  floor.  "As  my  wife — don't  you  see? — she  could 
carry  it  off — at  a  pinch;  as  yours — I  don't  see  how  she 
can." 

"You  mean- as  the  wife  of  a  layman—" 

"And  a  man  who  lives  in  another  country — and  belongs 
to  another  people — but  especially  as  the  wife  of  a  layman, 
as  you  call  it — " 

"You  forget  that  it  wouldn't  be  as  a  clergyman  that 
I  should  be  marrying  her— not  any  more  than  you  would 
do  the  same  as  a  banker.  In  both  cases  we  should  simply 
be  men." 

"  In  both  cases  a  dray-horse  and  a  racer  are  horses;  but 
they're  different  in  breed  and  in  qualities.  A  woman  who 
has  a  choice  between  a  banker  and  a  clergyman  has  a 
choice  between  men;  but  she  also  has  a  choice  between 

207 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

two  kinds  of  life — what?  She  might  take  to  tne  one  as  a 
filly  to  the  pasture,  and  find  that  she  didn't  have  the 
lungs  or  the  speed  for  the  other." 

Bainbridge  was  not  offended  by  the  nature  of  this 
comparison,  but  he  was  disturbed  by  a  hint  of  truth  in  it. 
Rising  abruptly,  he  began  to  pace  the  room  with  a  kind 
of  agitation  to  which  he  didn't  generally  yield.  He  had 
never  forgotten  that  Clorinda  herself  had  said:  "That  I 
should  be  the  wife  of  a  clergyman  is  inconceivable." 
Somehow  it  was  inconceivable.  It  had  always  been  in- 
conceivable. Now  that  Sir  Malcolm  Grant  was  there,  he, 
Bainbridge,  understood  how  the  man  could  put  forth  his 
savage  claim  that  Clorinda  and  he  were  made  for  each 
other.  They  were — in  a  sense.  They  had  similar  tra- 
ditions and  a  similar  knowledge  of  the  world.  In  both 
there  was  a  minimum  of  soul,  even  if  a  soul  was  in  process 
of  emerging,  while  each  suggested  the  fine  animal,  the 
thoroughbred,  the  creature  noble  of  body  and  gentle  of 
temper,  and  winsome  and  high-spirited  and  strong.  Could 
the  one  go  tamely  off  about  his  business?  and  could  the 
other  be  broken  to  the  yoke  of  the  parish  round,  with  its 
petty,  if  benevolent,  interests,  its  teacup  quarrels,  and  its 
old  wives'  tales  .  .  .  ? 

He  was  still  pondering  these  questions  when  Grant 
strode  across  from  his  place  on  the  hearth-rug  and  laid  a 
hand  on  his  shoulder.  He  could  do  it,  partly  because  he 
was  so  big,  partly  because,  when  all  was  said  and  done, 
he  was  the  elder. 

"Look  here,  Bainbridge,"  he  began,  in  a  kindly  tone, 
"you're  a  good  fellow — by  God!  you  are  good! — " 

Bainbridge  threw  back  his  head  and  looked  up.  "I 
dare  say  it  seems  so  to  you,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "but — 
but  I  know  to  the  contrary." 

208 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"Then  all  I  can  say  is  that,  you  put  up  a  great  bluff.  I 
admit  the  truth  of  most  of  the  things  you  say.  I'll  go 
further  and  confess  that  I  never  heard  a  man  reel  off  so 
much  truth  to  the  square  yard — " 

"You  forget,"  Bainbridge  smiled,  faintly,  "that  the 
laws  of  conduct  are  my  business  just  as  the  methods  of 
finance  are  yours.  I  hope  that  the  world  needs  both  of 
us  and  that  I  can  serve  my  turn." 

"You  bet  you  serve  your  turn — but  I  don't  believe 
that  your  turn  is  in  the  direction  in  which  you're  looking 
for  it  now.  I — I  don't." 

"  But  if  I  do—" 

"Then  you're  wrong."  Grant  now  laid  a  hand  on 
each  of  the  shoulders  of  the  other  man,  holding  him 
at  arm's-length.  "A  woman  who's  had  the  experience 
she's  had  might  be  my  wife — she  could  fit  herself  into 
the  position  —  and  —  and  so  could  I  —  now  —  but  she 
couldn't  be  yours."  He  added,  as  with  a  little  shove 
he  withdrew  his  hands,  "There  you  have  it  from  me 
straight." 

Bainbridge  stepped  back,  looking  at  his  rival  with  the 
clear,  deep  gaze  of  eyes  with  an  unusual  capacity  for 
candor  and  intensity.  "And  what  you  have  straight  from 
me  is  that  love  can  work  miracles.  A  man's  love,"  he 
went  on,  "can  do  anything  for  a  woman — " 

' '  So  you've  told  me  once  already ;  but  you  added, '  if  it's 
of  the  right  sort.'  " 

"And  mine  is." 

"Mine  wasn't,"  Grant  declared,  firmly.  "I  confess  to 
that.  But  it  is  now,  by  George!— and  if  it  isn't  I'll  make 
it  so." 

"Then  it  seems  to  me  we  can  only  leave  it  to  her." 

"Witt  you  leave  it  to  her?" 
209 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"I'll — I'll  leave  it  to  more  than  to  her.  I'll  leave  it — 
leave  it  to  the  great  principle  of  light,  which  I  have  to 
serve  before  I  serve  any  one  or  anything  else." 

"Done." 

And  on  the  word  they  clasped  hands. 


CHAPTER  XV 

IT  was  the  first  time  Bainbridge  had  ever  seen  Clo- 
rinda's  anger  flame  out  against  himself. 

"I  told  you  then,  for  the  express  reason  that  I  wanted 
him  to  know.  It  wasn't  the  minute  I  should  have  chosen 
above  all  others;  but  before  you  left  me  alone  with  him 
I  wished  to  make  the  situation  clear." 

"But  my  point,"  Bainbridge  endeavored  to  say  as  he 
watched  the  storm,  "was  not  that  you  should  have  told 
me  then;  it  was  that  you  should  have  told  me,  and  told 
him,  at  a  time  when  new  circumstances  might  have 
made  it  well  for  you  to  wait." 

For  the  minute  she,  too,  watched  the  storm.  Past  the 
window  of  her  little  office-sitting-room  the  drifts  whirled 
like  a  procession  of  wild  wraiths.  In  the  air,  on  the 
ground,  the  snow  danced  and  flew  and  piled  and  deep- 
ened, eddying  into  the  middle  of  the  street,  pelting  itself 
into  the  crevices  of  eaves  and  windows  and  doorways, 
lashing  the  faces  of  the  rare  passers-by,  blurring  the  arc- 
lights  that  were  just  beginning  to  come  out  like  wan  twi- 
light stars,  flying  down  from  heaven  and  up  again,  or 
swirling  off  into  infinity.  Now  and  then  a  motor  panted 
and  plowed  its  way  along;  now  and  then  a  cab-horse, 
inured  to  changes  of  weather,  dragged  a  ramshackled 
brougham  through  the  white  obscurity;  now  and  then  a 
business  man  battled  his  way  homeward;  now  and  then 

211 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

a  girl,  lithe  and  buoyant,  made  herself  the  spirit  of  the 
wind;  but  mostly  the  great  street  was  empty  of  every- 
thing but  the  sweep  and  onrush  of  the  tempest. 

In  its  force  and  grandeur  and  terror  and  exhilaration 
Bainbridge  found  it  akin  to  something  within  himself. 
Clorinda  had  renewed  her  promise  to  marry  him.  She 
had  renewed  it  with  deliberation  and  a  kind  of  splendor. 
"You  know  already  that  I  mean  to  do  what  you've 
asked  me — and  be  your  wife." 

It  was  characteristic  of  her  that  she  should  have  made 
this  declaration  standing,  in  the  royal  attitude,  with  the 
grand  manner  of  one  who  confers  distinction  and  knows 
that  she  is  doing  it.  When  Bainbridge  had  bowed  over 
the  hand  she  offered  him,  she  allowed  the  other  to  lie 
lightly  and  caressingly  on  his  head. 

It  was  the  touch  that  made  him  nothing  but  a  man. 

When  after  a  minute,  if  time  could  be  measured  by 
tickings  of  the  clock,  she  released  herself  from  him,  not 
without  a  struggle,  the  gesture  with  which  her  hand  went 
up  to  the  scarlet  spot  on  her  cheek  might  have  been  that 
of  a  princess  outraged  and  amazed. 

"You  mustn't — "  she  began  to  stammer,  tremblingly. 

"I  mustn't — what?"  he  challenged. 

"You  mustn't" — she  began,  tremblingly  again — "you 
mustn't  startle  me." 

He,  too,  was  flushed.  His  eyes  glistened  as  she  had 
never  seen  them  glisten  before.  "Oh,  Clorinda,  don't  you 
remember  telling  me  you  were  made  for  love?" 

She  was  still  the  amazed  and  outraged  princess.  "Yes; 
but  you  weren't." 

"Oh  yes,  I  was — with  one  side  of  my  nature.  It's  a 
side  that  now — " 

212 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

Though  the  back  of  her  hand  was  against  her  cheek  as 
if  she  was  hiding  a  stain,  she  contrived  to  smile  faintly 
"Yes,  yes;  but  not  too — not  too  suddenly.  I  must  get 
used  to  you—"  His  look  may  have  touched  her,  for  she 
extended  her  hands  to  him  at  once,  with  what  might 
have  been  compunction.  "There!  You  can  take  my 
hands — both  of  them.  They're — they're  yours.  Only- 
only  don't — don't  startle  me  again." 

Once  more  she  allowed  him  to  cover  both  her  hands 
kisses;  once  more  she  released  one  of  them  and  ran 
it  lightly  across  his  hair.  This  done,  she  detached  herself 
and  moved  away  to  a  place  of  greater  safety.  ' '  Sit  down, ' ' 
she  commanded,  pointing  to  one  of  the  worn  arm-chairs. 
Having  seated  herself  at  the  French  eighteenth-century 
desk  that  combined  the  attributes  of  business  and  ele- 
gance, she  subjoined:  "Now  we  can  talk." 

Talk  was  not  Bainbridge's  primary  need.  For  the  first 
time  he  was  seized  with  a  pang  that  seemed  to  transform 
his  being  into  a  sheet  of  flame.  He  could  not  have  said 
that  it  was  either  jealousy  or  rage;  it  was  rather  as  if 
scales  had  suddenly  fallen  from  his  eyes  so  that  he  saw 
her  as  she  was.  Not  in  this  way  had  she  yielded  herself 
to  the  man  who  had  been  her  lover  for  two  years.  He 
had  forgotten  the  words  in  which  she  had  told  him  so,  but 
he  had  retained  their  general  significance.  In  that  case 
there  had  been  an  electric  flash  of  emotion,  violent  and 
irresistible,  in  comparison  with  which  nothing  would  have 
mattered,  not  if  it  was  to  be  death  at  the  next  moment. 
There  had  been  no  shrinking  from  him,  no  keeping  him 
at  arm's-length.  She  had  been  his,  and  his  willingly. 

Not  till  he  saw  her  remove  herself  from  him  had  this 
thought  really  come  to  him.    In  the  duality  of  his  own 
he.  hatf  yieweji  her  hithertQ  less  as  a  woman  tjian 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

as  a  soul.  Even  since  the  discovery  of  her  actual  identity, 
made  twenty-four  hours  earlier,  he  had  been  able  to 
think  of  her  as  the  sinning  woman  of  the  New  Testament, 
with  her  qualities  of  pity,  glamour,  and  picturesqueness, 
while  the  sublime,  "Neither  do  I  condemn  thee,"  had 
chanted  itself  like  an  anthem  in  his  heart.  Now  that 
was  gone.  Something  had  dispelled  the  vision  and  stopped 
the  song.  What  he  saw  was  the  woman  whom  he  loved, 
noble,  magnificent — and  defiled.  For  a  minute  he  under- 
stood the  passion  of  the  Othellos  and  Don  Jose's  of  the 
world,  which  can  kill  more  easily  than  it  can  do  anything 
else. 

"You  love  me,  don't  you,  Clorinda?" 

Though  there  was  more  anguish  than  assurance  in  the 
question,  Clorinda  smiled.  "I  told  you  on  Christmas  Eve 
that  I  was  afraid  I  did — and — and  I  do."  Before  he 
could  make  a  response  she  added,  softly:  "It's  one  of 
the  kinds  of  love." 

He  stared  blankly.  "One  of  the  kinds  of  love?  What 
do  you  mean?" 

Her  agitation  struggled  with  her  efforts  to  be  self -con- 
trolled and  calm.  "I  mean  that  if  there  are  more  kinds 
than  one,  this  is  the  kind  I  can  feel  for  you." 

"And  you  could  feel  another  for  some  one  else?"  he 
asked,  suspiciously.  "Do  you  want  me  to  understand 
that?" 

"No;  but — but  it's  a  question  you  shouldn't  ask  me. 
When  I  tell  you  that  I  do  love  you — sincerely  and 
honestly  —  enough  to  marry  you  —  you  ought  to  be 
content." 

"But — but  the  kind  you  can  feel  for  me?  What  kind 
is  that?" 

She  looked  down  at  the  paper-weight  with  which  her 

214 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

fingers  toyed.  "I  suppose— I  suppose  the  kind  one  can 
feel  for  a — for  a  clergyman." 

He  flushed  to  a  deeper  shade  of  red.  "But  I'm  not  a 
clergyman — in  this  relation.  I'm  only  a  man." 

She  continued  to  finger  the  paper-weight.  "You're  a 
clergyman  before  you're  anything  else  to  me.  If  you 
hadn't  been  a  clergyman — " 

"Well?    What  then?" 

"Oh,  then — I  don't  suppose  I  should  have  cared  any- 
thing about  you." 

He  fell  back  into  the  depths  of  his  arm-chair.  "Clo- 
rinda,  you're  amazing!  How  can  I  follow  you?" 

"Perhaps  you  can't,"  she  returned,  gently;  "but  I 
don't  see  why  you  should  try  when  the  matter  only 
concerns  me." 

"Only  concerns  you?" 

"I'm  doing  what  you  asked  me  to  do;  and  I'm  doing  it 
from  what  seem  to  me  the  highest  motives."  She  glanced 
obliquely  toward  him,  with  a  certain  diffidence.  "I  care 
for  you,  because — because  you're  the  best  man  I've  ever 
known.  It's  precisely  because  you  are  the  best  man 
that  I  do  care.  You've  been  wonderful  to  me — from 
that — that  very  first  time  we  talked.  You  remember? 
But  you  wouldn't  have  been  so  if  you  hadn't  been  what 
you  are  professionally.  One  can't  imagine  a  lawyer,  or 
a  doctor,  or  a — " 

"Or  a  banker,"  he  suggested,  cruelly. 

She  accepted  the  word.  "Or  a  banker,  being  able  to 
say  the  things  you've  said  to  me,  or  knowing  anything 
about  them.  I  told  you  once  that  you  were  different  from 
other  men — that  you  spoke  another  language.  You  do. 
I've  thought  of  you  a  little  as  one  thinks — don't  be 
shocked  or  offended! — I'm  saying  it  in  quite  the  right 

215 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

way! — but  I've  thought  of  you  a  little  as  one  thinks  of 
Christ  when  they  brought  to  him  the  woman — " 

He  cried  out  imploringly,  "Don't,  Clorinda!" 

"Then  I  won't.  And  yet  why  should  I  not?  Nobody 
else  would  ever,  have  met  me  as  you  did — and  recognized 
me — and  seen  through  me — and  known  about  me  the 
things  you  knew — and  been  so  perfect  toward  me  always. 
If  I  speak  of  it  more  than  you  like,  it's  because — because 
it — it  makes  my  happiness.  It's  given  me  back  some  of 
the  things  I  thought  could  never  become  mine  again. 
And  so,"  she  went  on,  tremulously,  "you'll  always  be  a 
clergyman  to  me.  You  couldn't  be  anything  else.  And 
that  brings  me  to — to  the  explanation  it  seems  I  have  to 
make." 

He  was  so  busy  with  the  question  as  to  whether  or  not 
it  was  his  duty  to  tell  her  that  he  hadn't  recognized  or 
seen  through  her  in  the  way  that  gave  her  happiness  that 
he  could  only  murmur,  half  absently,  "Make  it." 

She  continued  in  some  confusion:  "It's  just  this — 
that  you  must  give  me  time.  You  must  let  me  get  used 
to  you  in — in  a  new  light.  When" — the  scarlet  came 
back  into  her  cheek  again  and  she  averted  her  face — 
"when  a  priest  does  what — what  you  did  just  now — it's 
so — so  terrifying — " 

He  leaned  forward  till  he  could  grasp  her  skirt.  "But, 
good  God,  Clorinda,  I'm  as  much  a  man  as — as" — the 
name  forced  its  way  out — "as  Malcolm  Grant." 

Her  first  act  was  to  detach  her  skirt  from  his  clutch, 
which  she  did  with  gentle,  unhastening  deliberation.  With 
the  expression  of  displeasure  in  her  eyes  she  was  able  to 
look  toward  him,  though  she  had  been  keeping  her  head 
turned  away.  "Why  do  you  mention  him — especially?" 

"Because  he's  come  back." 
216 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

"Well?    What  difference  does  that  make  to  me?" 

"I  can't  tell  you.  I  only  know  the  difference  it  makes 
to  him.' 

"Then  you've  been  talking  me  over." 

"How  could  we  help  it,  when — ?" 

"When  I  sent  him  to  you  in  the  first  place.  Yes,  of 
course.  I  remember.  I  accept  the  responsibility.  And 
the  difference  it  makes  to  him  is — what?" 

"He  seems  to  feel  that  he  still  has  a  claim  upon  you." 

' '  Indeed  ?    And  you  agree  with  him ?" 

"Not  unless  you  do  yourself." 

"And  what  makes  you  think  that  I  possibly  could?" 

Before  the  calm  pride  of  her  bearing  he  could  only  have 
answered  in  the  stress  of  an  intense  feeling  made  up  of 
many  blends.  "  It  seemed  to  me  strange  that  you  should 
have  said  that  you'd  marry  me — " 

"I  see — at  that  particular  moment  and  in  that  par- 
ticular way."  A  second's  reflection  impelled  her  to  add, 
"But  since  I  did  it  you  might  have  given  me  the  credit 
for  having  had  a  reason." 

It  was  the  agonizing  fact  that  she  had  withheld  herself 
from  him,  when  she  had  not  done  so  from  others,  that 
whipped  him  on.  "Oh,  I  know  you  had  a  reason;  but  if 
it  was  to  inflict  on  him  a  kind  of  revenge — 

"Revenge?  Why  should  I  inflict  revenge  on  him?  What 
has  he  been  telling  you?" 

"Nothing  that  isn't  kind  toward  you,"  he  thought  it 
fair  to  say;  "only — only  I  gathered  that  he  was  still  in 
love  with  you — " 

He  got  no  comfort  when  she  interrupted  him  with  the 
words,  "So  other  men  have  been." 

"And  that,"  he  struggled  on,  ignoring  the  stab,  "he 
was  not  without  hopes — 

J5  217 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

He  could  see  that  her  displeasure  was  heightening  into 
anger.  "And  did  he  send  you  to  plead  for  him?" 

"No."  he  declared,  with  spirit.  " If  I'm  pleading  at  all 
it's  for  yourself,  Clorinda — that  you  won't  marry  me — 
that  you  won't  marry  any  one — till  you  can  marry  him 
as  a  man.  And,  furthermore,  if  there  is  any  one  whom 
you  could  marry  as  a  man — marry  him." 

Impulsively  she  went  toward  him,  placing  her  .hands 
on  his  shoulders  in  such  a  way  that  he  was  held  down  in 
his  chair.  Nothing  had  ever  thrilled  him  in  his  life  like 
the  struggle  between  indignation  and  tenderness  in  her 
face  and  eyes  as  she  bent  above  him.  "You  must  let  me 
do  what  I  can,"  she  insisted.  "Don't  try  to  force  me,  or 
to  turn  me  into  something  I'm  not.  It's  possible  that 
some  day  I  may  see  you  as  you  want  me  to  see  you;  but 
for  the  present  you're  to  me  just  what  I've  said — no  less 
and  no  more.  You're  more  to  me  than  a  man — you're  a 
saint — or  an  angel — or  a  priest — or  any  other  high  mes- 
senger you  choose  to  name.  Merely  as  a  man — "  With- 
drawing her  hands  with  an  abrupt  little  gesture  which 
told  him  that  merely  as  a  man  he  would  not  have  appealed 
to  her,  she  went  to  the  window,  where,  with  her  back  to 
him,  she  stood  looking  out  on  the  storm.  He  was  wonder- 
ing how  he  could  demolish  the  halo  with  which  she  sur- 
rounded him,  when  she  began  again :  "  Since  you're  curious 
about  Malcolm  Grant — if  curious  is  the  word — I'll  ex- 
plain to  you.  I  told  you  then  for  the  express  reason  that 
I  wanted  him  to  know.  It  wasn't  the  minute  I  should 
have  chosen  above  all  others;  but  before  you  left  me  alone 
with  him  I  wished  to  make  the  situation  clear." 

Half  contrite,  he  followed  her  to  the  window.  It  was 
something  to  be  near  her,  even  if  she  refused  to  let  him 
touch  her  and  shrank  from  his  caress.  "But  my  point," 

218 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

he  endeavored  to  say,  as  he,  too,  looked  out  on  the  storm, 
"  was  not  that  you  should  have  told  me  then,  but  that  you 
should  have  told  me,  and  told  him,  at  a  time  when  new 
circumstances  might  have  made  it  well  for  you  to  wait." 

"Wait?"  she  exclaimed,  imperiously.  "What  should  I 
have  waited  for?  He — he  insulted  me.  He  used  language 
toward  me  I  never  could  forgive." 

"Yes,  in  the  heat  of  a  great  shock;  but — " 

"The  shock  was  the  test.  It  was  the  kind  of  test  that 
comes  in  fire  or  shipwreck — by  which  a  man  is  either  made 
or  broken.  If  a  man  proves  himself  a  coward  you  can 
never  forget  it,  even  if  he's  a  coward  only  because  his 
ship  is  going  down.  If  you  had  been  in  the  same  situa- 
tion— as  you  have  been,  practically — you  wouldn't  have 
humiliated  me  by  so  much  as  a  thought.  To  beat  a  woman 
when  she's  down  is  the  most  brutal  of  the  human  in- 
stincts. To  take  her  by  the  hand  and  raise  her  up 
again,  as  you've  done — " 

His  eyes  were  haggard  as  he  turned  them  toward  her. 

"Yes,  Clorinda;  but  love  is  something  different." 

"Is  it?  Wasn't  there  a  woman  in  the  Bible  whose  sins 
were  forgiven  because  she  loved  much? — and  wouldn't 
the  converse  of  that  also  have  been  true,  that  she  would 
have  loved  much  because  her  sins  had  been  forgiven?" 

"Yes;  but  there's  love  and  love.  There's  the  love  we 
feel  toward  God,  and  the  love  we  feel  toward  man.  They're 
different;  we  mustn't  confound  them.  They  spring  from 
different  sources;  they're  not  of  the  same  nature.  We 
come  there  to  a  place  where  language  is  meager  and 
clumsy;  but  the  heart  knows.  I  didn't  forgive  your  sins, 
Clorinda.  I'm  only  a  man.  It's  as  a  man  I  love  you; 
love  me  as  a  man.  If  you  can't — " 

"If  I  can't,  it's  because  I  can't." 
219 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

"If  you  can't,  it's  because  .  .  .  Clorinda,  tell  me — how 
near  did  you  come  to  marrying  Malcolm  Grant?" 

The  promptness  of  her  answer  took  him  by  surprise. 
"I  came  very  near — so  near  that  if  his  point  of  view  had 
been  different  I  should  have  done  it." 

"But  if  his  point  of  view  is  different  now?" 

"That's  exactly  it.  It's  what  I  guessed  the  minute  I 
saw  him  yesterday.  It  is  different  now.  And  it's  because 
it's  different  now  that  I  was  anxious  not  to — not  to  leave 
the  door  open  to  him,  as  it  were,  a  minute  longer  than  I 
could  help." 

"Nor  to  leave  it  open  to  yourself.  Wasn't  that  in  it, 
too? — even  if  no  more  than  subconsciously." 

She  drew  herself  up,  though  her  look  and  her  tone 
touched  him.  "That's  cruel.  I  didn't  expect  it  of  you. 
If  I'm  shutting  doors  that  have  been  open  to  myself,  it's 
only  because  I'm  groping  to  find  the  worthiest  way.  That 
you  should  taunt  me  with  that — " 

"But  I  don't  taunt  you  with  anything,"  he  cried,  pas- 
sionately. "I'm  only  afraid  that  you  don't  recognize 
your  own  motives.  If  you  can't  love  me  as  a  man,  it 
means  that  you  can't  love  me  at  all.  If  you  can't  love  me 
as — as — as" — he  struggled  with  himself,  but  the  words 
were  beyond  his  control — "as  you  loved  the  others — ' 

"Stop!"  She  drew  away  from  him,  right  to  the 
other  side  of  the  room.  "You  offend  me,"  she  declared, 
from  a  distance.  "You  beat  me  down  again  after 
having  raised  me  up.  If  you  knew  how  hard  the 
struggle  is  for  me — " 

He  remained  where  he  was,  by  the  window.  "What 
struggle,  Clorinda?" 

"Between  what  you  call — what  you  call,  in  your  lan- 
guage of  religion,  the  flesh  and  the  spirit — " 

220 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"And  I  represent  the  spirit  while  Malcolm  Grant  is 
the  flesh ?  Is  that  it?"  He  remembered  the  way  in  which 
he  had  thought  of  her.  "  I'm  not  a  figure  in  stained  glass, 
Clorinda.  I'm  a  man,  with  a  man's  passions  and  hun- 
gers-" 

She  threw  her  hands  apart  with  a  fatalistic  gesture. 
"Ah,  I've  seen  so  much  of  that.  I  thought — I  thought  I 
was  getting  away  from  it.  If  you've  only  dragged  me  out 
of  the  fire  to  pull  me  back  into  it  again — " 

"Well,  what  then?" 

"Then  I  might  as  well — "  But  she  kept  that  thought 
to  herself,  swerving  off  to  another.  "Aren't  your  old 
church  legends  full  of  tales  of  sinful  women — women  like 
Thais  and  Pelagia — won  back  from  their  wicked  lives  by 
holy  men,  whom  they've  followed  and  imitated — ?" 

He  almost  shouted.  "But  I'm  not  a  holy  man,  Clorinda 
— no  more  than  you're  a  Thais  or  a  Pelagia.  We're  just  a 
man  and  a  woman — " 

She  seemed  a  little  weary.  "Any  man? — and  any 
woman?" 

"Yes,  any  man  and  any  woman." 

There  was  a  repetition  of  her  fatalistic  gesture.  She 
studied  him  too,  with  a  sad  half -smile,  her  head  slightly  to 
one  side.  It  was  as  if  making  a  resolution  that  she  said 
at  last:  "Very  well,  then;  here  I  am — for  you  to  do  with 
as  you  like."  With  the  words  she  advanced  toward  him, 
slowly,  meekly,  her  hands  behind  her  back. 

When,  some  fifteen  minutes  later,  Bainbridge  came 
down  the  stairs,  he  heard  voices  in  the  dining-room.  The 
bass  was  that  of  Hindmarsh. 

"Now  that's  the  fruit-knife,  and  that's  the  fish-knife 
and  that's  the  butter-knife."  There  was  a  sound  of  the 

221 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

shuffling  of  silver,  the  articles  being  laid  out  again  on  the 
table.  "Now,  shaow  me  the  fish-knife." 

As  he  paused  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  stairs  Bainbridge 
saw  Pansy,  neatly  dressed  in  black  with  a  coquettish  white 
apron,  emerge  into  the  circle  of  the  dining-room  light  and 
peer  over  the  table  for  the  inspection.  Hindmarsh  looked 
on  with  an  interested  smile. 

"Nao!"  he  laughed,  when  Pansy  had  made  her  guess. 
"  You  are  a  little  silly.  But  pytience  '11  do  it.  That's  the 
butter-knife.  Now  let's  try  agyne.  All  you  need  is  a  little 
pytience.  I'll  learn  you  in  taime." 

Bainbridge  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead  and  tried  to 
think.  What  was  it  Pansy  stood  for?  It  was  the  next 
step  he  had  to  take — but  what?  The  last  half -hour  had 
blurred  it  into  a  black  spot  in  his  memory,  as  fire  scars  a 
wood.  He  heard  Hindmarsh  begin  again. 

"Your  nyme's  Pansy,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  response  came  timidly. 

"That's  a  pretty  nyme;  but  you  needn't  sye  sir  to  me. 
Just  call  me  Mr.  Hindmarsh.  Didn't  you  never  live  out 
before?" 

"No,  sir — no,  Mr.  Hindmarsh — only  with  Miss  Hig- 
gins." 

"Oh,  well;  you'll  soon  pick  it  up.  Pytience  '11  do  it,  I 
always  sye.  It's  a  science,  livin'  out  is;  but  if  you've  got 
a  gift  for  it —  Now  let's  try  agyne.  That's  the  fish-knife, 
and  that  the  butter-knife  ..." 

But  Pansy  having  given  him  the  cue,  Bainbridge  went 
forward  to  pick  up  his  hat  and  overcoat  and  face  the 
storm. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

0  EMEMBERING  that  he  had  promised  to  dine  en 

1  \  famille  with  Leslie  and  Maggie  Palliser,  Bainbridge, 
on  leaving  Mrs.  Gildersleeve's  house  in  Madison  Avenue, 
decided  to  fight  his  way  through  the  storm  to  Sixty-ninth 
Street.    The  lashing  of  the  north  wind  was  grateful  to  his 
burning  cheeks;   in  the  gale  the  mingling  of  fury  with  a 
fierce  exciting  joy  was  the  counterpart  to  the  struggle  of 
passions  within  him. 

Now  that  he  was  out  in  the  boisterous  twilight  it  sur- 
prised him  to  see  how  many  were  as  venturesome  as  he. 
Vehicles  were  few,  but  pedestrians  relatively  many,  most 
of  them  doubtless  finding  a  pleasure  similar  to  his  own  in 
wrestling  with  the  wind  that  whistled  through  the  can- 
yoned  streets,  and  caught  the  breath,  and  pelted  the  face 
with  a  shrapnel  of  snow,  and  wrought  the  senses  up  to 
ecstasy.  Newsboys  called  the  evening  papers  with  glee 
in  the  debased  English  of  their  cries;  gnome-like  men, 
jaded  and  broken,  emerged  from  nowhere  with  shovels 
on  their  shoulders;  here  and  there  a  policeman  opposed 
his  huge  bulk  to  the  onset  of  the  elements;  on  both  sides 
of  Fifth  Avenue  the  colors  of  flowers,  pictures,  old  furni- 
ture, and  books  gleamed  mistily  through  the  drifts  like 
jewels  behind  a  veil. 

Obscurely  Bainbridge  found  himself  comforted.  Bodily 
223 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

exertion  was  a  relief  to  mental  and  spiritual  tornado. 
The  madness  of  the  gusts  that  tore  at  him,  not  only  from 
every  point  of  the  compass,  but  down  from  the  roofs 
above  him,  and  up  from  the  snow-piled  pavement  beneath 
his  feet,  counteracted  in  some  degree  the  futile  confusion 
of  his  impulses.  He  called  it  futile  confusion  because  it 
seemed  to  lead  to  no  outlet.  The  maelstrom  could  boil 
over  into  all  the  waters  of  the  sea;  the  rapids  of  Niagara 
were  allowed  to  become  no  more  than  a  placid  stream;  the 
fires  at  the  heart  of  the  earth  found  vent  in  an  occasional 
Hecla  or  Vesuvius;  but  here  the  welter  of  emotions  could 
only  go  round  and  round,  shut  in  on  itself,  with  no  issue 
and  no  overflow.  One  thought  was  slain  by  another 
thought;  hope  only  formed  itself  to  be  leaped  on  by 
another  hope  and  strangled;  love  merged  itself  into  sus- 
picion almost  as  soon  as  he  knew  it  to  be  love,  and  sus- 
picion into  jealousy,  and  jealousy  into  frenzy,  only  to 
have  frenzy  reveal  itself  as  the  purest,  and  in  some  re- 
spects the  most  desperate,  devotion. 

The  facts  concerning  Clorinda  Gildersleeve  were  irrec- 
oncilable. Had  he  not  known  them  to  be  facts  he  must 
have  rejected  them  as  impossibilities.  Noble — magnifi- 
cent— defiled!  These  were  the  terms  he  had  applied  to 
her;  but  they  couldn't  fuse;  they  were  too  hostile  to 
each  other  to  be  used  of  the  same  character.  And  yet 
which  could  he  retract?  Could  any  of  them  be  retracted? 
Could  he  not  take  all  the  synonyms  for  all  the  three  and 
find  them  equally  in  point?  Was  he  to  be  her  dupe  or 
her  slave  or  her  saviour?  Would  his  love  be  her  redemp- 
tion? Or  should  he  himself  become  only  one  more  on  a 
list  of  lovers  which  the  intensity  of  his  suffering  impelled 
him  to  write  down  as  long? 

The  storm  did  not  answer  these  questions;  but  it  sub- 

224 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

dued,  and  in  a  measure  soothed,  the  eagerness  with  which 
he  put  them  to  his  soul. 

Though  by  the  time  he  reached  the  house  in  Sixty- 
ninth  Street  he  was  tolerably  calm,  Maggie  was  quick  to 
notice  that  he  was  both  excited  and  fatigued.  "You 
shouldn't  have  come  out  on  an  evening  like  this,"  she 
commented,  anxiously,  as  she  put  a  comfortable  chair 
near  the  library  fire;  "or  else  you  should  have  called  me 
up  so  that  I  could  have  sent  Tufts  for  you  in  the  big 
limousine."  Both  the  children  were  with  her,  a  boy  of 
eight  and  a  girl  of  five,  but  she  dismissed  them  to  their 
playroom  at  the  top  of  the  house,  in  order  that  Bain- 
bridge  might  have  the  half-hour  before  dinner  to  rest 
himself.  A  maternal  quality  entered  into  her  care  of  him. 
"What's  the  matter,  Arthur?"  she  asked,  when  they  were 
alone. 

There  was  ardor  in  his  reply,  in  spite  of  a  weary,  twisted 
smile.  "Nothing  that  isn't  good — very  good." 

"Then  you  don't  look  it.  I  never  saw  you  so" — she 
sought  for  a  word — "so  strange." 

"You'd  be  strange,  too,  if  you'd  been  out  in  a  storm 
like  this."  It  was  in  his  mind  to  make  a  clean  breast  of 
it,  to  her  at  least.  There  was,  indeed,  no  reason  why  he 
should  not  have  told  any  one.  He  hardly  knew  what  with- 
held him,  beyond  the  consideration  that  it  might  be  for 
Clorinda  herself  to  give  the  word.  As  it  was  he  had  got  as 
far  as  saying,  "I'm  en — "  when  the  door  opened  and 
Leslie  walked  in. 

In  the  constraint  which  followed  there  was  an  element 
of  naive^.  That  Maggie  should  be  childish  Bainbridge 
took  as  a  matter  of  course;  but  that  Leslie  should  be 
equally  so  gave  him  a  measure  of  relief.  Where  anger  was 
passing  into  pettishness  reconciliation  would  be  easier. 

225 


It  was  of  a  piece  with  this  spirit  that  when,  after  dinner, 
Bainbridge  asked  for  a  little  music,  Maggie  should  say: 
"Oh,  then  I'll  leave  you  together.  Leslie  doesn't  care 
to  have  me  around  when  he's  playing.  Do  you,  Leslie?" 

"Why,  yes,  if  you  want  to  listen,"  Leslie  replied,  indif- 
ferently. "But  the  minute  I  begin  to  play  you  generally 
start  in  to  talk." 

"Oh,  then  I  sha'n't  this  evening,  for  I  shall  not  be 
here.  You'll  excuse  me,  Arthur,  won't  you?  I'm  sorry 
not  to  stay;  but  since  Leslie  doesn't  want  me  I  shall  go 
and  see  the  children  put  to  bed.  Be  sure  to  let  me  know 
if  you'd  like  Tufts  to  take  you  home.  The  storm  seems 
to  be  blowing  itself  out." 

Leslie  was  in  the  middle  of  Gluck's  gavotte  arranged 
by  Brahms  when  he  snatched  his  hands  from  the  piano, 
to  say,  abruptly,  "Arthur,  take  my  advice  and  never 
marry." 

Before  there  was  time  for  a  response  he  was  off  on  the 
next  entrancing  phrase,  so  that  his  guest  had  the  oppor- 
tunity to  turn  the  interruption  over  in  his  mind.  In  the 
large  white-and-gold  room  only  the  electrics  nearest  the 
piano  were  turned  on.  Bainbridge  was  seated  where  he 
generally  placed  himself  when  Leslie  played,  in  a  low  arm- 
chair from  which  he  faced  the  performer,  partly  in  profile, 
and  could  watch  his  hands. 

"I  might  take  another  man's  advice — "  he  began  when 
his  friend  had  finished  his  selection. 

"And  do  it.  Not  if  he  spoke  as  sincerely  as  I'm  speak- 
ing now — at  least  not  in  the  case  of  nine  men  who  marry 
out  of  ten.  Undoubtedly  there's  a  tenth  man  who — " 

"Who  finds  in  marriage  what  he's  looking  for." 

"If  he's  not  looking  for  very  much.  But  you  would  be. 
You're  an  idealist  by  profession;  and  the  man  who  takes 

226 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

an  ideal  into  marriage— well,  I  can  only  say,  God  help 
him!" 

"And  very  likely  God  does." 

"If  so  God  is  the  only  one.  Man  doesn't — and  still 
less  woman." 

Bainbridge  began  to  perceive  that  his  friend  was  en- 
deavoring to  "get  something  over"  to  him,  possibly 
without  having  the  exact  channel  through  which  his 
meaning  could  be  conveyed.  The  result  was  on  Leslie's 
part  a  certain  exaggeration  and  brutality,  and  on  Bain- 
bridge's  nothing  but  perplexity. 

"Something  depends  on  what  a  man  marries  for"  the 
latter  mused,  after  a  minute's  reflection. 

Palliser's  pretense  at  the  downright  exposure  of  his 
soul  was  not  the  less  bitter  for  being  superficially  noncha- 
lant .  "I  married  for  money. ' '  The  assertion  was  followed 
by  a  series  of  airy  scales  up  and  down  the  keyboard. 

"Oh  no,  you  didn't,  Leslie.  You  married  as  most 
people  do — because  the  time  for  marriage  had  come — 
and  there  was  Maggie — " 

Palliser  again  snatched  his  hands  from  the  keys  to 
throw  back  his  head  with  a  "Ha!"  intended  for  laughter. 

"And  there  was  Maggie,"  Bainbridge  insisted,  speaking 
slowly,  "who  was  in  love  with  you — and  you,  being  a  well- 
disposed,  kindly  chap,  expected  to  fall  in  love  with  her — 
which  in  a  way  you've  done — ' 

The  repeated  "Ha!"  emphasized  now  by  a  loud  wild 
chord,  might  have  meant  anything  from  tears  to  derision, 
or  from  denial  to  agreement. 

"Not  as  every  one  else  would  do  it,"  Bainbridge  pur- 
sued, with  an  air  of  tranquillity,  "but  each  man  has  his 
own  way  of  falling  in  love — and  yours  has  been  to  see  in 
Maggie  the  wholesomeness  of  her  great  big  heart — and  do 

227 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

it  justice — with  an  infusion  of  pity  for  her,  too — and  an 
all-round  appreciation  of  her  splendid  qualities — 

On  this  analysis  of  his  state  of  mind  Palliser  broke  in 
with  the  opening  bars  of  a  nocturne  of  Chopin's.  He  con- 
tinued it  softly  as  he  said:  "Funny,  Arthur,  how  you  can 
hit  the  nail  on  the  head  about  another  man's  affairs  and 
be  altogether  off  on  your  own.  And  yet  I  suppose  it's 
natural  enough.  Doctor  can  often  prescribe  for  a  patient, 
and  yet  need  some  one  else  to  do  it  for  himself."  He 
studied  the  movements  of  his  hands  as  he  played  dreamily. 
"See  here;  tell  me;  what  should  you  marry  for,  if  you 
ever  came  to  do  it? — which  I  hope  to  the  Lord  you  never 
may." 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  curious  undercurrent  of  en- 
deavor, resembling  the  so-called  efforts  of  spirits  to  get 
something  "across,"  which  he  had  already  detected  in  his 
host,  Bainbridge  would  have  taken  this  as  no  more  than 
one  of  the  intimate  abstract  questions  permissible  be- 
tween old  friends.  As  it  was,  his  suspicion  of  a  motive 
impelled  him  to  answer  warily: 

"I  suppose  that  when  I  marry  it  will  be  in  fulfil- 
ment of  a  general  law.  Few  people  know  why  they 
marry.  The  time  for  it  comes — and  they  do  it.  One 
man  says  it's  for  love,  and  another  that  it's  because  he 
wants  a  home — " 

"But  I'm  asking  what  you'd  say?" 

Bainbridge  was  still  on  his  guard,  though  against  what 
he  didn't  know.  "Haven't  I  told  you  that  already?" 

"You've  said  that  it  would  be  in  fulfilment  of  a  law. 
But  why  should  you  fulfil  the  law  at  one  time  more  than 
another?" 

"Because  there  comes  a  day  when  Nature — " 

"Just  so.  That's  where  I  wanted  to  bring  you.  Good 

228 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

old  Nature  baits  her  hook.  But  the  bait  turns  out  to  be  a 
bit  of  dry  feather,  while  the  hook  goes  into  your  gills  for 
life.  See?"  He  swayed  gently  to  Chopin's  somnolent 
phrases.  "Wise  old  party,  Nature  is.  No  one  knows 
better  than  herself  that  if  she  didn't  dazzle  the  eyes  with 
an  artificial  fly  she'd  never  get  the  systematic  reproduc- 
tion of  the  species.  But — and  this  is  my  point — you're 
too  good  to  be  used  like  that.  You're  meant  for  other 
things." 

The  nocturne  was  still  singing  its  soothing  way  as  Bain- 
bridge  said:  "Why  are  you  giving  me  this  information 
now?  Have  you  been — hearing  anything?" 

"I've  been  hearing  enough  to  make  one  exception  to 
what  I've  just  said.  As  I  remember  telling  you  once 
before,  there  is  a  nice  girl — " 

Bainbridge's  sudden  movement  was  one  of  irritation. 
"Please  don't  go  on  with  that." 

"Well,  she's  all  right.  She  wouldn't  be  a — a  shock  to 
your  parishioners.  But ' ' —  he  bent  low  over  the  keyboard, 
wringing  out  the  theme  with  passionate  intensity — "but 
marry  any  one  else — " 

Though  he  left  the  sentence  unfinished,  a  sharp,  nervous, 
aching  chord  or  two  enabled  him  to  convey  the  impres- 
sion of  something  broken  off,  with  pain  and  disillusion  as 
the  sequel.  Bainbridge's  chin  rested  on  the  back  of  his 
clasped  hands,  while  his  thoughts  were  thrown  back  upon 
himself. 

"What  do  you  mean  by — by  a  shock  to  my  parishion- 
ers?" 

"Oh,  well,  it's  always  a  shock  to  people  when  their 
clergyman  gets  married." 

The  echo  here  of  Clorinda's  feeling  of  the  afternoon  was 
startling.  "Why?"  he  asked,  blankly,  "Is  there  a  dif- 

229 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

ference  between  the  marriage  of  a  clergyman  and  that  of 
any  other  man?" 

The  nocturne  took  a  skipping,  graceful  turn.  "O 
Lord,  yes.  At  heart  we're  all  believers  in  the  celibacy  of 
the  clergy."  He  added,  after  a  few  more  cheerful  bars: 
"The  marriage  of  a  clergyman  isn't  different  from  that 
of  any  other  man — to  him.  It  only  is  to  us — his  people. 
It — it  brings  him  down.  He's  never  the  same  to  us  after- 
ward." 

Bainbridge's  exclamation  came  out  as  a  protest,  almost 
as  a  groan.  "Oh,  rot,  Leslie!" 

In  proportion  as  the  one  man  showed  his  distress  the 
other  grew  master  of  himself.  "No,  it  isn't  rot,  old  boy. 
It's  in  human  nature.  If  people  think  anything  of  a 
clergyman  at  all  they  want  to  keep  him  on  a  level  higher 
than  their  own.  He  stands  for  the  things  they're  trying 
to  work  up  to." 

"And  is  there  anything  higher  than  a  consecrated 
marriage?" 

"Y-yes."  Mystery,  yearning,  aspiration,  seemed  to 
flow  from  the  keys  beneath  Palliser's  fingers.  "I  don't 
know  exactly  what  it  is;  but,  like  everybody  else,  I  feel 
it's  there.  Marriage,  I  take  it,  at  its  best,  is  primarily  a 
concession  to  the  animal  within  us,  for  the  sake  of  an 
animal  offspring.  But  there  must  be  something  better 
than  that."  He  asked,  as  the  wistful,  climbing  melody 
rose  from  one  straining  pitch  to  another:  "Isn't  there 
something  in  the  Bible  about  neitheV  marrying  nor  giving 
in  marriage — because  we've  reached  a  higher  state?" 

"There  is — but  we  haven't  yet  reached  it." 

"No;  but  we're  on  the  way.  That's  just  the  point. 
We're  like  people  toiling  up  a  mountain,  with  a  guide 
going  on  ahead.  We  want  him  to  be  higher  up  than  our- 

230 


selves,  so  that  he  can  show  us  where  we're  going.  The 
clergyman  who's  only  jogging  along  with  the  rest  of  us — 
well,  he's  hardly  a  clergyman  at  all."  The  mounting  of 
the  repeated  theme  seemed  about  to  touch  its  climax 
when  it  broke  off  suddenly  in  a  kind  of  wail.  "If  he's 
made  of  the  same  clay  as  ourselves,  with  the  same  needs 
and  passions,  we  don't  want  to  know  it.  At  any  rate, 
we  don't  want  the  fact  obtruded  on  us  when  we're  trying 
to  associate  him  with  better  things.  When  he  insists  on 
our  seeing  him  just  as  we  see  any  other  man  he — he  falls; 
and,"  he  quoted,  "when  he  falls,  he  falls  like  Lucifer, 
never  to  rise  again." 

Bainbridge  waited  till  the  composition  had  died  away 
in  a  succession  of  soft,  patient  sighs,  breathing  resigna- 
tion, if  not  peace.  Because  he  knew  he  had  grown  pale 
he  rose  and  moved  away  out  of  the  patch  of  light.  It 
was  from  a  distance  that  he  accosted  his  friend,  who  was 
now  swinging  idly  on  the  stool.  "Leslie!  Why  are  you 
saying  all  this  to  me  now?  What  have  you  got  up  your 
sleeve?" 

Leslie  rose  and  moved  round  toward  the  tail  of  the 
piano,  where  he  leaned  with  his  back  against  it.  Before 
speaking  he  took  out  a  cigarette,  which  he  fingered  but 
didn't  light.  Again  Bainbridge  received  the  impression 
that  he  wished  to  convey  something  without  saying  it. 
His  manner  betrayed  its  excitement  chiefly  by  its  effort 
to  seem  cool. 

"I've  nothing  but  this  up  my  sleeve,  old  boy,"  he  de- 
clared at  last:  "that  if  you  marry  any  one  but — but  the 
nice  girl  I've  referred  to,  your  work— your  happy,  useful 
work  I  may  call  it— at  St.  Mary  Magdalen's  will  have 
been  done." 

Bainbridge  gathered  all  his  inner  resources  together. 
231 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"Are  you — are  you  thinking  of — of  any  one  in  particular — 
when  you  say  that?" 

Deliberately  Palliser  took  out  his  match-box  and  struck 
a  light.  The  cigarette  was  between  his  lips  as  he  said,  in- 
distinctly, and  yet  in  a  way  to  be  quite  articulate:  "I'm 
thinking  of  what  I've  said.  You  could  make  a  marriage 
that  wouldn't  be  a  shock  to  us.  Any  other  marriage 
would — would  turn  you  into  nothing  but  a  man." 

This  second  echo  of  Clorinda's  thought  was  like  the 
whip-lash  of  exasperation.  "But,  good  God,  Leslie!''  he 
cried  out,  "I  am  nothing  but  a  man!" 

Palliser  smiled.  "Oh  no,  Arthur.  You're  a  good  deal 
more  than  a  man,  as  men  are  known  to  us.  To  a  lot  of 
us  you've  been — the  guide  going  on  before  the  climber. 
You've  meant  so  much  to  us  in  that  capacity  that  we 
want  to  keep  you  there.  It  makes  us  the  more  sure  that 
we  ourselves  shall  go  upward." 

"And  admitting  for  the  moment  that  that's  so,  do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  that  just  because  I  marry — ?" 

' '  Yes ;  to  some  extent,  just  because  you  marry.  Rightly 
or  wrongly,  we've  lifted  you  toward  the  sphere  where 
they  neither  marry  nor  are  given  in  marriage,  but — I 
think  I've  got  the  words  of  the  Bible — but  are  as  the 
angels  of  God.  You're  one  of  the  men — there  have  been 
a  good  many  of  them  in  the  world  at  one  time  or  another — 
who  come  to  us  as  interpreters  of  a  life  purer  than  our 
own.  The  minute  you  marry  you  come  down  into  our 
life;  and  when  you  do  you  can't  help  us  any  more. 
It  seems  to  me,  Arthur,  that  you've  reached  a  point 
where  you  must  choose  between  being  the  guide  or  the 
climber — " 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,  hasn't  this  question  been  fought 
out  long  ago?  and  hasn't  the  whole  portion  of  Christen- 

232 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL 

dom  to  which  we  belong  admitted  that  a  married 
clergy — ?" 

"Is  better  than  a  corrupt  one;  yes;  but  it  hasn't  ad- 
mitted more  than  that.  With  a  man  like  you  there's  no 
such  question;  and  so — " 

"And  so,  to  gratify  a  fancy  I  must  become  what  Kipling 
calls  a  plaster  saint — " 

"Oh,  it's  deeper  than  a  fancy.  You  wouldn't  find  the 
largest  churches  of  East  and  West  making  it  an  essential 
if  it  didn't  respond  to  a  demand  within  the  human  heart. 
When  you've  said  all  you  can  for  marriage,  it  remains 
physical,  material,  of  the  earth  earthy,  and  only  good 
enough  for  the  common  man.  I've  often  thought  that  a 
large  part  of  the  flabbiness  of  Protestantism,  and  of  its 
economic  wastefulness,  comes  from  the  fact  that  we've  so 
few  guides  going  on  above  us,  and  a  lot  of  blind  leaders 
of  the  blind  struggling  along  in  the  mass.  Are  you  going 
to  stay  up  or  are  you  coming  down?  That's  the  choice 
before  you." 

Bainbridge  took  a  step  forward,  out  of  the  obscurity  in 
which  for  some  minutes  he  had  kept  himself.  In  his 
haggard  eyes  there  was  an  expression  that  might  have 
passed  as  one  of  curiosity.  "And  are  you  saying  all  this, 
Leslie,  from  preference  for  an  unmarried  clergy — ?" 

"That's  one  reason — quite  sincerely,"  Palliser  hastened 
to  interpose. 

"Or  have  you  any  other  object?" 

Leslie  gazed  at  the  lighted  end  of  his  cigarette.  "What 
other  object  could  I  have?" 

"God  alone  knows." 

Palliser  answered  with  unusual  distinctness  of  utter- 
ance, spacing  his  words  apart.  "Well— Arthur— God 
alone — does  know;  and  I  propose  that — God  alone— shall 

16  233 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

know."  He  added,  m  a  more  casual  tone,  "But  that 
doesn't  prevent  the  things  I've  said  being,  in  a  general 
way,  both  true  and  sincere." 

"Excuse  me,  Leslie,"  Maggie's  voice  came  from  the 
threshold,  "but  the  night  is  really  so  bad  that  I  think  I 
should  either  keep  Arthur  here  or  have  Tufts  to  take 
him  home."  . 

It  seemed  to  Bainbridge  that  he  had  to  bring  his  mind 
from  myriads  of  miles  away  to  discuss  these  kindly 
proposals. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

FOR  a  man  as  kind  as  the  assistant  rector  of  St.  Mary 
Magdalen's  the  warmth,  not  to  say  the  effusiveness, 
of  a  welcome  like  Miss  Higgins's  could  not  be  otherwise 
than  painful.  As  it  was  the  day  after  the  storm,  the  state 
of  the  streets  compelled  her,  so  she  said,  to  remain  at 
home. 

"  I  thought  it  a  bore  at  first — one  gets  so  used  to  one's 
little  round  in  society,  doesn't  one? — but  since  it  has 
brought  me  a  call  from  my  clergyman  I  take  it  as  quite  a 
happy  dispensation.  Do  sit  down."  She  pointed  to  the 
red  sofa  he  had  last  occupied  side  by  side  with  Maggie 
Palliser.  "I'll  take  this  chair.  It  will  be  convenient 
when  Josephetta  brings  the  tea." 

"No  tea  for  me,"  he  begged,  hurriedly. 

"No?  Then  we'll  just  talk.  I  so  often  long  to  talk 
with  my  clergyman.  It  seems  to  me  that  people,  and 
some  of  the  best  people,  are  ever  so  much  more  interested 
in  religion  than  they  used  to  be.  There  was  a  time  when 
it  was  considered  quite  mat  d  propos  to  mention  it;  but 
now  ....  Of  course  some  are  against  it  as  well  as  some 
being  for;  but  it's  always  for  and  against  in  this  world, 
don't  you  think?  and  I  say  it's  better  for  religion  to  be 
spoken  of  anyhow  rather  than  just  to  be  ignored.  I  feel 
that  about  so  many  things,  don't  you?  and  I  can  hardly 
tell  you  what  a  treat  it  is  to  me  to  be  able  to  talk  with 

235 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

some  one  quite  sympathetic,  who  understands  .... 
The  storm  has  really  been  a  blessing  in  disguise,  for  I've 
so  wanted  to  tell  you  how  grateful  I  am  for  what's  been 
done  for  little  Pansy  Wilde.  I  should  have  written  to 
you  about  it,  only  that  I  said  to  myself,  'Well,  there! 
Mr.  Bainbridge  must  get  so  many  letters,  and  this  will 
be  only  one  more  for  him  to  answer.'  ...  I'm  always 
thinking  of  others  like  that.  I  suppose  it's  in  me.  Things 
have  to  be  in  you,  don't  you  think?  You  can't  force 
them.  You're  either  like  that  or  you're  not  like  that,  I 
always  think.  And  when  I  remember  little  Pansy  .... 
My  present  maid  is  quite  an  elderly  colored  woman. 
Josephetta  is  her  name.  I  couldn't  run  the  same  risk 
twice,  now  could  I?  Living  alone  as  I  do,  and  a  woman 
having  nothing  but  her  reputation.  ...  If  I'd  known 
more  of  the  world  I  shouldn't  have  allowed  Pansy  so  much 
liberty;  but  I  hadn't  a  thought — not  the  shadow  of  a 
thought — not  the  ghost  of  the  shadow  of  a  thought  .... 
But  now  that  it's  all  ended  so  happily  and  Pansy  in  such 
good  hands  at  the  House  of  Comfort  .  .  .  ' 

Miss  Higgins  confessed  that  she  had  not  accomplished 
much  with  her  life — society  took  so  much  time ! — but  she 
really  could  take  some  credit  to  herself  for  what  had  been 
done  for  Pansy  Wilde,  now  couldn't  she?  It  had  been  a 
positive  inspiration,  her  speaking  of  the  matter  to  Mr. 
Bainbridge  that  day  at  the  Cloudsleys'  reception.  Didn't 
he  think  Mrs.  Cloudsley  a  dear?  and  wasn't  Edith  too 
quaint  for  anything? — so  like  a  darling  child  painted  by 
Holbein  or  Lucas  Cranach.  That  plain  style  really  seemed 
to  be  coming  in  again.  So  many  of  the  girls  in  New  York 
nowadays  were  plain,  and  the  better  the  family  the  plainer 
they  were,  as  a  general  thing.  Plainness  was  really  quite 
a  distinction,  something  which  every  one  couldn't  afford, 

236 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

if  he  knew  what  she  meant.  She  had  had  no  idea  that 
things  with  Pansy  were  quite  as  bad  as  they  afterward 
proved  to  be,  which  made  her  the  more  pleased  with  her 
happy  thought.  The  mother  was  such  a  good  woman,  too, 
just  a  simple  American  woman  of  the  good  old  country 
stock,  incapable  of  understanding  life  in  New  York.  But 
she  was  softened  and  comforted  now  by  the  kindness 
shown  her  from  St.  Mary  Magdalen's,  and  who  knew  but 
that  Pansy's  downfall  might  do  her  good?  In  any  case, 
she,  Miss  Higgins,  could  congratulate  herself  on  the  part 
she  had  played,  for  even  if  it  was  but  a  minor  one  it 
brought  her  into  the  company  of  her  distinguished  visitor. 
She  rattled  on  so  fast  and  with  so  little  intermission  that 
Bainbridge  had  nothing  to  do  but  study  her  and  watch 
for  his  opportunity.  What  struck  him  chiefly  was  the 
bland  innocuousness  of  this  Delphic  Pythia  whose  utter- 
ances did  so  much  to  make  or  mar  the  peace  of  households 
and  to  direct  fates.  Week  by  week  the  leaves  on  which 
her  oracles  were  written  went  broadcast  throughout  the 
land,  to  be  seized,  devoured,  pondered  on,  discussed. 
There  were  circles  in  which  her  dicta  got  more  attention 
than  any  Presidential  message,  and  much  more  than  an 
interchange  of  diplomatic  notes.  As  a  mystery  and  an 
influence  she  roused  consciences  and  molded  lives.  She 
excited  the  young,  and  frightened  the  wicked,  and  shocked 
the  respectable,  and  amused  the  safe,  and  interested  every 
one.  In  the  same  way  that  she  had  scared  Claribel  Jarrott 
away  from  her  Mr.  Searle,  and  wakened  Leslie  and 
Maggie  Palliser  to  a  sense  of  their  marital  realities,  she 
had  probably  sown  her  bread  upon  the  waters  through  all 
the  federated  States;  and  yet,  here  she  sat,  no  avenging 
goddess,  no  pantheress  in  her  den,  but  a  mincing,  talka- 
tive, harmless  lady,  dressed  in  a  pale-blue  tea-gown,  with 

237 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

a  suggestion  of  the  aqueous  and  unimportant  in  her  per- 
sonality, and  eyes  like  a  pair  of  empty  china  plates.  There 
was  nothing  cruel  or  cat-like  about  her,  and  not  much 
that  was  sinister.  That  little  was  in  her  manner,  which 
was  too  ingratiating  for  sincerity,  and  in  the  changeless 
smile  of  her  long,  thin,  somewhat  prognathic  mouth. 

"Do  you  recognize  this?" 

He  never  quite  knew  how  he  came  to  whip  from  his 
pocket  a  copy  of  the  journal  to  which  he  believed  his 
hostess  to  be  a  contributor,  and  to  lay  a  certain  para- 
graph under  her  eyes.  His  mind  resumed  its  working 
with  his  consciousness  of  her  frozen  smile.  If  he  noticed 
anything  further  it  was  a  slight  tendency  on  her  side  to 
overact  her  part.  As  an  illustration  of  that,  her  hands 
refused  to  touch  the  object  he  held  out  toward  her,  while 
she  betrayed  her  intimacy  with  its  contents  by  not  glanc- 
ing at  the  lines  to  which  his  finger  pointed.  She  contented 
herself  with  smiling  fixedly,  saying,  with  a  kind  of  wooden, 
rehearsed  surprise: 

"Why,  no!" 

He  continued  to  hold  the  paper  toward  her,  his  finger 
tapping  the  line  he  wished  her  to  read.  "Have  you 
looked  at  it?" 

Her  pale  eyes  grew  frightened,  though  the  smile  main- 
tained its  rigidity.  "Why  should  I  look  at  it?  What  has 
it  to  do  with  me?" 

"That's  what  I  thought  you  might  tell  me." 

"Well,  I  can't.  I  haven't  the  faintest  idea  what  you 
mean.  Really,  Mr.  Bainbridge,  considering  that  you're 
my  clergyman — " 

"Please  look  at  it  and  tell  me  whether  or  not  you've 
ever  seen  it  before." 

She  leaned  forward  with  an  expression  in  which  distress 

238 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

mingled  with  the  amused,  gingerly  concession  she  might 
have  made  to  a  child.  "I  never  have,"  she  declared,  still 
without  taking  time  to  glance  at  a  line. 

"Look  again." 

She  looked  again  in  the  same  manner.  Her  response 
was  a  silent  shake  of  the  head. 

"Take  it,"  he  commanded,  gently.  "You  can  see  it 
better  if  you  have  it  in  your  own  hands." 

She  took  it  delicately,  as  though  it  was  something  not 
quite  clean,  holding  it  between  thumb  and  second  finger, 
by  the  upper  left-hand  corner  and  the  lower  right,  some- 
what transversely.  Her  smile  was  that  of  a  person  lending 
herself  to  a  puzzle  or  a  parlor  trick.  "  Now  what  do  I  do?" 
she  asked,  with  an  air  of  patient  bewilderment. 

Again  he  pointed  to  the  place.  "Will  you  be  good 
enough  to  read  that?" 

For  a  half -second  she  seemed  to  read.  "How  shock- 
ing!" she  commented  then.  "Such  nice  people,  too.  One 
never  knows,  does  one?"  She  lifted  her  big,  pale,  fright- 
ened eyes  with  a  look  of  bravado.  "But  what  can  I  do 
about  it?" 

"If  you'll  tell  me  what  you've  done  about  it  already 
I'll  explain  to  you  what  you  can  do  next." 

"  I  ?  Done  about  it  ?"  She  turned  the  paper  over  help- 
lessly. "What  can  I  have  done  about  it?" 

"Written  it." 

"Written  it?  Me?  Why,  really,  Mr.  Bainbridge!" 
Hurriedly  she  appeared  to  scan  the  lines,  searching 
for  traces  of  her  own  craftsmanship.  "Why— why,  I 
never — " 

"Never  saw  that  before?" 

She  tried  to  be  indignant,  but  succeeded  only  in  being 

faint.     "N-no." 

239 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

"Think,  Miss  Higgins,"  he  said,  sternly. 

"But  I  tell  you  I  never  have.  I  don't  see  what  you 
come  here  to  accuse  me  of — my  clergyman,  too!" 

"I  don't  come  here  to  accuse  you  of  anything.  I'm 
only  asking  your  help  in  putting  right  a  wrong." 

"If  you  mean  a  wrong  that  I've  committed — 

"I  don't  say  you've  committed  it — maliciously." 

"If  you  say  I've  committed  it  at  all — " 

"I  want  you  to  say  that." 

The  smile  had  gradually  gone  out,  while  the  thin  prog- 
nathic  mouth  did  its  best  to  express  horror.  "Say  I've 
betrayed  my  friends  in  society? — and  held  them  up  before 
the  public — ?" 

"It  isn't  the  holding  them  up  before  the  public  that 
does  the  harm;  it's  the  injuring  them  in  the  eyes  of  each 
other." 

In  face  and  tone  the  surprise  was  now  unfeigned.  "In- 
juring them  in  the  eyes  of  each  other?  Whatever  do  you 
mean,  Mr.  Bainbridge?" 

"What  the  public  does  or  doesn't  think  of  people  like 
Leslie  and  Maggie  Palliser  is  of  no  importance.  If  it  re- 
members to-day  it  will  forget  to-morrow.  That  can  pass. 
But  did  it  never  occur  to  you  that  in  putting  suspicion 
into  the  mind  of  a  wife  toward  her  husband,  and  of  a  hus- 
band toward  his  wife — ?" 

"Oh,  if  people  don't  know  each  other  well  enough  when 
they've  been  married  as  many  years  as  they  have — 

"Do  people  ever  know  one  another  well  enough — in 
the  sense  you  mean?  Aren't  we  always  strangers  to 
one  another,  even  the  husbands  and  wives  who  live  in 
the  closest  communion?  Hasn't  each  of  us  a  right  to  a 
kind  of  sacredness  in  his  private  life — ?" 

"Oh,  but  when  it's  only  a  little  bit  of  fun!" 

240 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

' '  A  little  bit  of  f un  ?"  He  gazed  at  her  steadily.  ' '  Then 
you  did  do  it." 

She  bit  her  lip,  a  faint  flush  stealing  over  her  prominent 
cheek-bones.  "I  never  said  that." 

"Then  what  do  you  mean  by  a  little  bit  of  fun?  Fun 
for  whom?" 

"Why — why,  fun  for — for  any  one." 

"And  you'd  see  people  you  know — people  who,  I  think, 
have  always  been  kind  to  you — suffer,  suffer  acutely,  in 
order  that  some  unknown  person  might  have  fun?  Oh, 
Miss  Higgins,  that's  not  like  the  fine  woman  I  take  you 
to  be." 

The  pale  eyes  grew  paler  behind  a  mist  of  tears.  "I 
didn't  know,"  she  began  to  stammer,  "that — that  any 
one  was  suffering — " 

"Did  you  care?" 

She  strove  to  right  herself  again.  "How  could  I  care 
when — when  I  didn't  know  anything  about  it?" 

Gently  he  withdrew  the  publication  from  her  lap  and 
slipped  it  back  into  his  pocket.  "Then  if  you  persist  in 
saying  that,  there  will  be  no  choice  for  me  but — but  to 
act." 

Where  there  had  been  only  fear  in  her  face  there  was 
now  terror.  "Act,  Mr.  Bainbridge?  What  do  you  mean 
by  that?" 

"What  can  I  mean  but  to  have— to  have  every  door  in 
New  York  shut  against  you?"  A  slight  pause  emphasized 
the  softly  spoken  words,  "I  can." 

"  Oh,  but  you  wouldn't !"  She  clasped  her  hands  on  her 
breast.  The  words  came  out  like  a  plea. 

"I  shouldn't  want  to;  but  it  might  become  my  duty." 

The  catch  in  her  breath  amounted  to  a  sob.  "Your 
duty  to  hunt  down  a  poor,  friendless  woman,  who — ?" 

241 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"You'd  only  be  a  poor,  friendless  woman  when  you'd 
put  yourself  outside  the  range  of  friendship.  I  don't  con- 
sider you've  done  so  as  yet.  As  I've  already  said,  people 
have  been  kind  to  you.  The  last  time  I  was  in  this  room 
it  was  crowded  with  the  most  important  people  in  New 
York  social  life  who  had  no  other  motive  in  coming  than 
to  let  you  see  they  cared  for  you.  I've  little  hesitation  in 
saying  that  if  you  were  in  trouble  or  need  I  could  go  out 
among  the  families  of  St.  Mary  Magdalen's  and  in  two 
hours  raise  a  sum  that  would  take  care  of  you  for  life." 

The  tears  were  flowing  freely  as  she  said,  "  That  wouldn't 
be  on  my  account;  it  would  be  on  yours." 

"Let  us  say  that  it  would  be  on  account  of  both  of  us. 
The  fact  remains  that  you've  been  holding  up  to  ridicule 
or  castigation  those  who've  been  well  disposed  toward 
you,  who've  welcomed  you  to  their  houses  when  you  had 
nothing  to  offer  them  in  exchange — " 

Genuine  anger  made  the  pallid  personality  flame  into 
life.  She  grasped  the  arms  of  her  chair,  her  long-waisted 
figure  stiffening  and  straining  forward,  the  voice  growing 
shrill  and  imperative.  "What  do  you  know?  Who's  been 
telling  you  about  me?" 

"No  one's  been  telling  me  about  you,  Miss  Higgins. 
What  I  know  I  know  merely  through  the  performance  of 
my  duty.  What's  more  than  that,  I  come  here  not  as  an 
accuser,  but  as  your  friend.  If  you'd  trust  me — " 

"Trust  you,  when  you  threaten  to  have  me  turned  out 
of  every  house  in  New  York?    Why,  man,  it's — it's"- 
the  declaration  came  out  because  she  couldn't  keep  it 
back — "it's  all  I've  got  to  live  on." 

He  ignored  this  confession  to  say,  quietly:  "I  didn't 
say  turned  out,  I  said  kept  out.  There's  a  difference. 
And  that  I  said  only  in  case  you  didn't  trust  me." 

242 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"But  what's  the  good  of  trusting  you— now?" 

"This  good,  that  I  could  make  things  easy  for  you  by 
showing  you  how  to  do  right." 

She  began  to  mop  her  eyes  with  a  kind  of  fierceness.  ' '  Do 
right  by  going  to  people  like  Leslie  and  Maggie  Palliser, 
and  telling  them  I  didn't  know  anything  about  them—" 

He  considered  this  admission.  "If  you  didn't  know 
anything  about  them — " 

She  seemed  to  gather  all  her  forces  of  avowal  and  indig- 
nation together  in  one  exasperated  cry.  "/  didn't!  I 
didn't  know  anything  about  them — and  I  didn't  care.  I 
just  guessed.  It's  practically  all  I  ever  do.  I'm  paid  for 
guessing;  and  nine  times  out  of  ten  I  guess  right.  Now 
you  know  it  all." 

He  fell  back  into  the  depths  of  the  red  sofa,  too  amazed 
to  speak.  "Do  you  really  want  me  to  believe — ?"  he 
began  when  he  had  grasped  the  meaning  of  her  words. 

"I  want  you  to  believe  that  I  have  to  earn  a  living,  and 
that  I've  got  nothing  to  earn  it  on  but  my  footing  in 
society.  If  you  take  that  away  from  me  you  reduce  me 
to  beggary.  So  there!" 

As  she  threw  back  her  head,  with  a  daring  which  the 
mask  of  smiling  ineffectually  concealed,  she  was  more 
distinctly  a  living  human  being  than  he  had  hitherto 
thought  possible.  Curiously  enough,  too,  he  began  to 
feel  toward  her  a  creeping  sympathy  in  which  there  was 
an  element  almost  of  respect.  "Then  I  understand  you 
to  say  that  in  what  you  write  you  don't  pretend  to  know 
the  facts—" 

"Hardly  ever,"  she  threw  in,  with  an  audacity  not 
without  a  dash  of  tears.  "The  ordinary  American  reader 
wants  something  spicy.  He  doesn't  care  whether  it's  true 
or  not." 

243 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"Nor  you  either?" 

"x^'When  I  hit  the  probable  I'm  near  enough.    It's  just 
talk.    No  one  expects  it  to  be  more  than  that." 

"But  there's  helpful  talk,  and  harmful  talk;  and  in  the 
present  case — ' 

"I've  said  nothing  but  what  every  one  who  knew  the 
Pallisers  could  see  for  themselves.  With  his  looks  and 
her  temper — " 

"Still  it  was  only  guesswork." 

"Guesswork  of  a  kind.  You  put  two  and  two  to- 
gether— " 

"And  it  was  still  guesswork  when  you  introduced  a 
third  person? — a  certain  dark-eyed  lady,  I  think  you 
called  her — " 

"No,  that  was  a  little  more."  Now  that  she  was  con- 
fessing, she  displayed  an  almost  hysterical  desire  to  go  on. 
He  divined,  indeed,  on  her  part  that  relief  in  getting  rid  of 
concealments  and  in  coming  out  into  the  light  common  to 
all  human  beings  accustomed  to  go  skulking  along  in  the 
dark.  "That  was  a  little  more,"  she  repeated,  eagerly. 
"I'd  seen  enough  to  know  what  to  think — especially  as 
things  go  here  in  New  York.  I  wouldn't  give  her  name — 
well,  for  one  reason  because  she's  always  been  so  perfectly 
lovely  to  me,  and  I'm  never  one  to  go  prying  into  any  one's 
private  life.  It's  not  in  me;  and  when  a  thing  isn't  in 
you,  you  don't  do  it,"  she  declared,  flatly. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  saw  his  first  real  oppor- 
tunity. "Exactly;  that's  just  the  point.  You  see  it 
partly  for  yourself.  That's  what,  in  your  writing, 
you  should  try  to  do  all  round.  As  it  is,  you  shield, 
to  some  extent  at  least,  a  woman  who's  on  the  stage 
and  accustomed  to  publicity,  and  yet  you  have  no 
hesitation  in  delivering  up — " 

244 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

The  plate-like  eyes  grew  rounder  than  ever;  the  slightly 
underhung  lower  lip  dropped  in  a  vacant  wonder;  the 
shrill  voice  fell.  "But  she's  not  on  the  stage.  I  can't 
think  who  you're  talking  about.  Leslie  Palliser  has  never 
gone  in  for  that  kind  of  thing.  If  he  had  I  should  know. 
I  don't  go  prying  into  other  people's  private  lives;  it  isn't 
in  me;  but  that  couldn't  have  escaped  me,  with  all  I've 
seen  of  New  York.  There's  no  reason  why  I  shouldn't  tell 
you.  You  know  so  much  of  what  goes  on  among  the  very 
best.  It  was  Clorinda  Gildersleeve." 

In  Bainbridge's  mind  there  were  three  distinct  processes, 
of  each  of  which  he  was  curiously  able  to  take  account. 
The  first  was  a  kind  of  nightmare  impulse  to  spring  on 
this  creature  and  strangle  her.  The  second  was  of  the 
nature  of  the  lifting  of  a  veil  that  had  blinded  his  eyes 
and  clogged  his  mental  movements  and  forced  him  to  a 
helpless  feeling  of  his  way  through  mysteries.  By  the 
third,  which  kept  him  seated  with  apparent  tranquillity  in 
his  corner  of  the  sofa,  an  arm  stretched  along  the  back, 
he  repeated  to  himself  the  words:  "I'm  a  priest.  This 
woman  has  a  soul.  I'm  here  not  to  upbraid  her  or  to 
punish  her,  but  to  help  her.  She's  my  charge.  As  long  as 
I'm  in  this  room  her  necessities  must  come  before  every- 
thing. What  concerns  me  must  wait." 

He  hardly  noticed  that  Miss  Higgins's  eyes  rested  on  his 
face  with  a  kind  of  bewilderment  at  what  she  saw  there. 
He  was  only  vaguely  conscious  when,  with  her  excited 
zeal  to  pour  everything  out  on  him  and  spare  him  no 
detail,  she  hurried  on.  "I  didn't  know  anything  about 
that,  either— not  for  sure.  It  was  just  a  coincidence.  I 
saw  him  twice." 

It  was  partly  his  confessor's  instinct  and  partly  some- 
thing irrepressible  within  himself  that  prompted  the 

245 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

question,  asking  hoarsely  and  with  difficulty:   "Twice — 
where?" 

Miss  Higgins  was  only  too  anxious  to  tell,  not  merely 
for  the  sake  of  purging  her  soul  of  its  secrets,  but  of 
reveling  at  the  same  time  in  the  wickedness  of  those  who 
passed  as  virtuous.  "Coming  away  from  her  house — 
very  late  at  night.  It  was  the  most  extraordinary  thing 
that  I  should  have  been  going  by  on  both  occasions.  I 
was  coming  home  from  dining  with  the  Wrenns.  They 
live  in  Thirty-seventh  Street,  just  round  the  corner  from 
Clorinda.  They  often  ask  me,  quite  dans  Vintimite.  I 
walk  home,  because  it's  a  mere  step  from  here — and  that's 
how  it  happened."  She  paused,  not  only  for  breath,  but 
to  dash  away  a  tear  or  two,  and  also  to  enjoy  the  effect 
she  was  producing.  "The  first  time — well,  I  hardly 
thought  anything  of  it.  I  knew  they  were  all  great  friends 
together,  and  that  Maggie  and  Clorinda  were  a  kind  of 
cousins,  and  so  ...  It  just  occurred  to  me  that  if 
anybody  wanted  to  look  for  a  scandal — but  it's  not  in  me 
to  do  that — and  I  simply  let  it  pass — keeping  it  only  in 
the  back  of  my  mind  in  case  .  .  .  But  the  second  time — 
that  was  a  month  or  two  later — and  it  must  have  been 
quite  near  midnight — well,  I  must  say  I  thought  it  queer. 
.  .  .  Still  I  wouldn't  believe  anything,  not  for  Clorinda's 
sake.  She's  always  been  too  heavenly  to  me — and  it's^ 
nothing  to  me  what  people  are  in  their  private  life.  I'm 
very  liberal  like  that"  it's  in  me  to  be  so.  And  if  I  hadn't 
proved  it  for  myself,  as  you  might  say — " 

He  followed  her  sufficiently  to  be  able  to  repeat, 
"Proved  it?" 

"Yes,  proved  it — in  a  way."  Miss  Higgins's  enjoyment 
of  her  tale  became  more  manifest  as  it  went  on.  "Any 
one  who  knows  me  knows  I  never  pry  into  what  doesn't 

246 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

concern  me;  and  if  it  hadn't  been  that  I  wanted  to  be  in 
a  position  to  defend  Clorinda,  if  ever  her  name  came  up, 
I  shouldn't  have  done  it." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

She  grew  confidential.  "Well,  there's  no  reason  why  I 
shouldn't  tell  you,  Mr.  Bainbridge.  You're  a  clergyman, 
and  you  have  your  own  way  of  finding  out  things,  fust  as 
much  as  I  have.  If  you  didn't  have  you  wouldn't  have 
found  out  about  me,  though  how  you  did  .  .  .  But  I've 
nothing  to  conceal,  as  I  think  you  must  see.  .  .  .  Why, 
I  went  straight  to  the  nearest  druggist's  and  rang  up 
Maggie's  house  in  Sixty-ninth  Street,  before  he  could  get 
there.  I  said  I  was  a  stenographer  at  the  rooms  of  the 
National  Economic  Society,  working  late — and  could 
they  tell  me  if  Mr.  Palliser  was  in,  or  if  not  where  he  could 
be  found,  as  it  was  about  a  series  of  lectures.  It  was  a 
man  who  answered,  a  footman  I  suppose,  and  he  said  if 
I'd  hold  the  line  he'd  consult  Mrs.  Palliser.  When  he 
came  back  he  said  that  Mr.  Palliser  was  spending  the 
evening  at  the  New  Netherlands  Club — and  so  I  put  two 
and  two  together.  I  shouldn't  have  done  it,"  she  con- 
tinued, rapidly,  terrified  by  her  visitor's  expression,  "if  it 
hadn't  been  for  Clorinda's  sake.  I  was  so  anxious  to 
defend  her."  It  was  still  Bainbridge's  expression  that 
sent  her  rushing  on.  "Oh,  it's  awful,  New  York  is!  We're 
all  corrupt.  I  don't  know  what's  to  become  of  us.  It's 
like  the  last  days  of  the  Roman  Empire.  Such  luxury  and 
extravagance  and  license!  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  bit 
better  than  others;  pretense  isn't  in  me;  but  then  I'm 
no  worse.  How  a  clergyman  like  you  can  go  on  working 
among  us  and  trying  to  do  us  good — " 

"Stop,"  Bainbridge  said,  quietly. 

Miss  Higgins  came  to  an  abrupt  halt.  As  her  facile 
247 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

tears  were  already  flowing,  she  began  to  cry.  "Now  that 
you've  got  me  in  your  power,"  she  whimpered,  "  I  suppose 
you're  going  to  ruin  me." 

To  this  it  was  a  long  minute  before  he  made  a  response. 
He  needed  the  time  to  disperse  the  thoughts  of  which 
Leslie  was  the  center  that  crowded  in  the  forefront  of  his 
mind.  He  also  needed  the  time  to  remind  himself  again 
that,  viper  as  this  woman  made  herself,  it  was  for  him  to 
disclose  in  her  the  spiritual  and  the  lovely  and  help  her 
to  be  true  to  it.  Another  man's  task,  he  admitted,  might 
be  different;  but  that  was  his. 

"Now  you  see  why  Leslie  is  so  eager  that  you  shouldn't 
marry."  "Now  you  see  what's  been  weighing  on  poor 
Maggie  all  these  years,  and  what  she  couldn't  under- 
stand. "  "  Now  you  see  why  Leslie  and  Clorinda  have  been 
supposed  not  to  like  each  other,  liking  each  other  probably 
too  well."  "Now  you  see — " 

By  a  heroic  effort  he  dismissed  these  thoughts,  or 
thrust  them  backward,  in  order  to  say  to  Miss  Higgins, 
with  something  like  calmness  of  utterance:  "No,  I'm  not 
going  to  ruin  you — not  if  you  do  what  I  tell  you." 

She  whimpered  again.  "You'll  ruin  me  if  you  take 
away  my  means  of  livelihood.  I  sha'n't  have  five  hundred 
dollars  a  year.  I've  simply  got  to  go  everywhere  and  see 
everybody — " 

"I'm  not  going  to  take  away  your  means  of  livelihood. 
I  shall  only  ask  you  to  do  what  will  leave  you  with  a 
claarer  conscience.  You're  not  a  mean  and  spiteful  woman 
naturally,  though  you've  done  some  mean  and  spiteful 
things." 

"I  didn't  do  them  meanly  or  spitefully,  either — " 

"No;  you  did  them  only  foolishly,  and  with  a  wish  to 
make  money  out  of  other  people's  failings."  He  tapped 

248 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

the  pocket  containing  the  Delphic  oracles.  "I've  been 
looking  over  these  pages.  Every  thing  in  them  isn't 
unkindly,  by  any  means.  It's  gossipy  and  trivial,  to  be 
sure,  and  not  worth  while;  but  there's  no  great  harm  in 
it.  Why  shouldn't  you  write  like  that?" 

"They  wouldn't  want  me  to." 

"Try  it.  People  have  been  good  to  you;  be  good  to 
them — and  see.  There's  a  line  in  the  New  Testament 
which  I  dare  say  you  remember.  The  authorized  version 
gives  it  as:  ' Ever  follow  that  which  is  good,'  but  a  modern 
translation  makes  it:  'Always  follow  the  kindest  course.' 
I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  take  that  as  a  sort  of  motto — " 

"  It  isn't  in  me  not  to  be  kind,"  she  sobbed. 

"No,  of  course,  it  isn't,  not  naturally." 

"But  if  I'm  not  spicy—-" 

"Just  try  it  and  see.  If  evil  seems  to  succeed,  good  will 
succeed  better.  All  we  need  is  the  courage  to  act  up  to  it. 
I  shall  be  surprised  not  to  learn  that  if  you've  been  paid 
for  being  nasty  you'll  be  better  paid  for  being  nice. 
And  there's  one  thing  more,"  he  hurried  on,  not  allow- 
ing her  to  speak.  "You've  done  a  great  deal  of  harm  to 
Leslie  and  Maggie  Palliser.  I  want  you  to  help  in  put- 
ting that  right." 

The  prognathic  jaw  dropped  again.  "If  it's  going  to 
them  on  my  bended  knees — and  eating  humble  pie— and 
telling  them  that  I  was  just  putting  two  and  two  together 
—that  I  couldn't  do.  It's  not  in  me.  Oh,  don't  make  me 
do  it—" 

"Wait!  Let  me  finish.  I  don't  want  you  to  see  them. 
I  don't  want  them  even  to  know  your  name.  We'll — 
we'll  not  do  anything  sensational  or  theatrical.  They 
think  well  of  you  as  it  is.  Let  them  continue  to  do  so. 
But'  '—he  took  a  moment  to  reflect—' '  but  go  over  there— 

17  249 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

he  pointed  to  a  desk — "and  take  down  what  I  dictate. 
Write,"  he  went  on,  when  she  had  seated  herself,  pen  in 
hand,  "write  on  paper  with  no  address,  and  nothing  but 
the  date. 

"I  am  the  author  of  the  paragraphs  that  have  given 
you  offense.  I  wish  to  say  that  I  have  talked  to  Mr.  Bain- 
bridge,  and  now  beg  to  tell  you  that  I  wrote  thoughtlessly 
and  foolishly,  with  no  real  knowledge  of  your  lives  or 
your  affairs.  What  I  have  said  was  pure  invention,  or 
speculation  at  the  most.  It  had  no  more  malicious  inten- 
tion than  to  amuse  some  careless  reader,  and  I  can  only 
ask  you  to  pardon  it.  I  shall  not  use  your  names  again. 

"Don't  put  any  signature,"  he  added.  "As  to  that  I 
shall  make  the  necessary  explanation,  which  will  not  be 
much."  '  He  was  on  his  feet  when  she  brought  the  com- 
pleted lines.  Having  glanced  at  them,  he  folded  the  sheet 
and  put  it  into  his  pocket-book.  The  act  kept  his  eye 
from  hers  as  he  continued:  "And  in  the  matter  of  your — 
your  silly  and  gratuitous  thought  of — of  Mrs.  Gildersleeve 
— you'll,  of  course,  never  mention  it  again.  You'll — 
you'll  do  what  you  can  to — dismiss  it  from  a  mind  which 
should  never — have  harbored  it."  Having  said  this,  he 
found  it  the  easier  to  look  up  for  his  concluding  words. 
"I'm  doing  my  best  for  you;  and  now  it  remains  for  you 
to  do  what  you  can  for  yourself.  We'll  talk  about  every- 
thing again,  later.  In  the  mean  while  you've  the  words 
I've  given  you:  Always  follow  the  kindest  course.  If  you 
do  take  them  as  a  motto  you'll  find  that  they'll  be  a  guide, 
not  only  in  your  writing,  but  in  everything  else." 

When  he  held  out  his  hand  it  was  with  a  sickening  sen- 
sation that  he  found  her  seizing  and  kissing  it;  and  yet 

250 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

he  deemed  it  his  duty  to  conceal  his  repugnance  and  to  let 
her  repeat  the  act. 

As  he  passed  St.  Mary  Magdalen's  after  leaving  Miss 
Higgins's  apartment  he  went  in.  Dusk  was  beginning  to 
come  down,  and  the  church  was  dim  and  silent.  It  was 
an  eloquent  silence,  the  peace  of  a  consecrated  isle,  in 
the  midst  of  a  sea  of  passion  and  unrest;  it  was  a  rich 
dimness,  with  the  gleam  of  brasses  and  the  colors  of 
flowers  and  stained  glass  mingling  in  a  sumptuous,  luster- 
less  twilight. 

Two  women,  widely  separated,  were  the  church's  only 
occupants.  One  was  kneeling,  with  bent  head;  the  other 
was  seated,  reading  from  the  Bible  or  a  book  of  prayers. 
Bainbridge  took  his  place  noiselessly  behind  them  and 
fell  upon  his  knees. 

But  he  couldn't  pray.  His  thoughts  were  too  con- 
fused for  praying.  They  were  confused  and  vengeful  and 
helpless.  Like  Elijah  under  the  juniper-tree,  he  could  only 
mutter,  brokenly:  "It  is  enough;  now,  O  Lord,  take  away 
my  life."  The  words  passed  through  his  mind  repeatedly. 
It  was  the  only  form  of  self-expression  he  could  find. 

Clorinda  and  Leslie!  Clorinda  and  Maggie!  Maggie 
and  Leslie!  Clorinda  betraying  the  woman  who  had  been 
good  to  her!  Leslie  betraying  the  wife  who  adored  him! 
All  three  of  them  his  friends  and  intimates!  The  corrup- 
tion in  the  air  he  had  breathed!  The  poison  which  for  all 
the  future  would  be  food  and  drink  to  him!  How  could 
he  pray?  What  should  he  pray  for?  It  was  all  over  and 
done  with  and  accursed.  Since  there  was  nothing  to  do 
but  to  accept  the  facts,  what  place  was  left  for  prayer? 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  accept  the  facts!  But 
how  must  he  accept  them?  There  must  be  different 

251 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

methods  of  acceptance,  and  which  should  be  his?  Even 
here  there  was  a  right  and  a  wrong;  even  here  he  had  to 
be  a  priest.  There  might  be  a  thing  permissible  to  other 
men  which  would  not  be  permissible  to  him;  there  might 
be  a  necessity  'for  him  which  would  not  be  a  necessity 
for  them. 

It  was  as  far  as,  for  the  moment,  he  could  go.  All  was 
so  obscure  that  when  he  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands 
he  made  nothing  any  darker.  In  the  darkness  he  could 
only  endure.  Thought  became  formless,  chaotic.  Even 
suffering  grew  to  be  an  unillumined,  brutal  thing,  like  the 
suffering  of  some  huge  beast  neither  seeing  nor  searching 
a  why  or  a  wherefore.  Into  it  he  was  so  deeply  plunged 
that  it  was  like  the  primal  order  of  things,  nerveless,  in- 
organic, unconscious.  He  might  have  been  immersed  in 
it;  he  might  have  been  drowned  in  it.  During  the  space 
of  a  long  half -hour  he  might  have  been  reduced  to  the 
amoebic,  to  the  protoplasmic. 

When  intelligence  began  to  stir  it  was  in  disconnected 
phrases  out  of  the  ageless  record  of  human  experience 
which  was  to  him  as  his  every-day  speech.  They  came 
without  prelude  and  passed  without  sequence,  out  of  the 
darkness  and  into  the  darkness  again. 

"Yea,  even  mine  own  familiar  friend  whom  I  trusted 
hath  laid  great  wait  for  me." 

"Ah,  sinful  nation,  a  people  laden  with  iniquity,  a  seed 
of  evildoers." 

"And  the  woman  was  arrayed  in  purple  and  scarlet — 
and  decked  with  gold  and  precious  stones — and  upon  her 
forehead  was  a  name  written — MYSTERY." 

"And  one  shall  ask  him,  What  are  these  wounds  in 
thine  hands?  and  he  shall  answer,  Those  with  which  I 
was  wounded  in  the  house  of  my  friends." 

352 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

He  bowed  his  head.  Thought  again  became  silent  and 
inactive.  It  was  as  if  the  words  had  welled  up  from  the 
gulf  of  Time  when  he  found  himself  saying,  a  little  later: 

"Out  of  the  deep  have  I  called  unto  thee,  O  Lord; 
Lord,  hear  my  voice." 

He  repeated  the  words  in  the  sonorous  tongue  in  which 
they  came  laden  with  the  need  and  petition  of  sixty 
generations: 

"De  profundis  clamavi  ad  te,  Domine;  Domme,  exaudi 
wcem  meam." 

"De  profundis!  De  profundis!"  he  kept  saying  to  him- 
self, till  the  very  syllables  lulled  him  again  into  an  emo- 
tionless quiet  that  might  have  passed  for  peace. 

That  evening  he  laid  what  was  in  some  respects  the 
most  oppressive  portion  of  his  burden  before  Dr.  Galloway. 
He  could  do  it  the  more  easily  because  they  had  met  in 
the  rector's  study  to  discuss  the  special  services  and 
meetings  they  should  hold  in  the  approaching  Lent. 

"And  how  much  practical  good  do  you  suppose  we're 
going  to  do  with  it  all?" 

It  was  the  bitter,  blurting  tone  that  caused  the  rector 
to  look  up  in  surprise  as  he  sat  sidewise  to  his  desk, 
taking  notes  of  the  various  suggestions.  He  answered, 
slowly: 

"I  dare  say  we  sha'n't  accomplish  any  that  we  can 
see,  or  not  much."  He  added,  with  a  certain  sad- 
ness in  the  tone:  "I've  been  through  too  many  Lents 
to  expect  it." 

He  was  a  huge,  bulky,  Buddha-like  man,  whose  size 
rendered  him  incapable  of  much  physical  activity.  Never- 
theless, the  heavy,  clean-shaven  face  was  alight  with  in- 
telligence, and  the  eyes  were  keen.  A  leonine  mane  of 

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THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

white  hair,  brushed  back  from  temples  and  brow,  gave 
him  a  touch  of  the  apostolic. 

Bainbridge's  tone  was  still  bitter.  "Then  why  do  we 
go  on  doing  it?" 

The  reply  was  not  so  much  ponderous  as  delivered  with 
a  certain  well-weighed  solemnity.  "To  the  best  of  my 
belief,  we  go  on  doing  it  in  the  hope  of  the  future, 
but  with  the  conservative,  self-perpetuating  methods  of 
the  past." 

"And  do  you  think  that's  enough?" 

A  brief  hesitation  preceded  the  reply.  "No.  The  pov- 
erty of  the  return  in  proportion  to  the  immensity  of  the 
effort  shows  that  it's  not  enough."  There  was  a  second 
brief  hesitation.  "Bainbridge,  I've  never  said  to  any  one 
before  what  I'm  now  going  to  confess  to  you.  I've  come 
to  the  conclusion,  not  only  by  thinking,  but  by  living  and 
seeing,  that  Christianity  needs  to  be  presented  under  some 
new  and  simpler  and  /nore  vital  form." 

"  What  ?"  Bainbridge  demanded,  eagerly.    ' '  Which  ?" 

"  I'm  an  old  man.  I've  worked  for  fifty  years  along  the 
lines  on  which  I'm  working  now.  I  cling  to  my  Book  of 
Common  Prayer,  and  to  the  rites  and  ceremonies  of  the 
Church.  I  cling  to  them  passionately.  I  don't  suppose 
I  shall  ever  give  them  up." 

Bainbridge  drew  to  the  edge  of  his  arm-chair  and  leaned 
forward,  his  elbows  on  his  knees.  His  face  was  to  his  body 
as  the  flame  is  to  the  torch.  "But — but  would  you  think 
it  right  to  give  them  up?" 

The  response  was  as  measured  as  before.  "I  think  it 
right  for  every  living  organism  to  grow.  And  growth 
means  change.  And  change  means  readjustment.  And 
readjustment  means  new  methods  to  meet  new  needs. 
And  new  needs  mean  new  perceptians.  And  new  percep- 

254 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

tions  mean  a  fuller  grasp  of  truth.    Where  you  have  per- 
petual youth  you  have  perpetual  adaptation." 

"But  isn't  the  Church  the  fruitage  and  heritage  of  the 
past?" 

"No."  The  answer  was  both  gentle  and  firm.  "No. 
That's  the  doctrine  that's  producing  petrifaction  in  us." 
The  rumble  of  his  deep  voice  seemed  to  shake  the  room. 
"Christianity  is  petrifying.  Our  conservatism  is  reducing 
it  to  stone.  Truth  has  no  past.'  Truth  knows  no  such 
limit  as  time.  It  is  new  every  morning.  It  is  reborn 
every  day.  Our  love  of  tradition — of  history — of  scho- 
lasticism— of  habit — of  mere  habit  above  everything — is 
substituting  a  dead  past  for  a  living  Christ;  and  so  to  a 
world  hungering  and  thirsting  after  righteousness  we're 
offering  the  petrified  thing — the  stone." 

"Ah,  but  is  the  world  hungering  and  thirsting  after 
righteousness?"  Bainbridge  felt  the  root  of  his  question- 
ing to  be  there.  "Are  the  people  of  New  York  doing  it, 
for  example?  or  even  the  members  of  St.  Mary  Magda- 
len's? Not  to  go  outside  St.  Mary  Magdalen's — aren't 
sin  and  wickedness  and — and — impurity — germinating 
there  with  the  fertility  of  plants  in  a  hot-bed — among 
the  very  men  and  women  we  mix  with  every  day — and 
think  highly  of — and — and" — the  word  came  out  with  a 
mingling  of  shamefacedness  and  passion — "and  love? 
Aren't  most  of  us  rotten?  Isn't  it  putrefaction  rather 
than  petrifaction  that  makes  our  difficulty?" 

The  keen  old  eyes  rested  on  him  long  and  sympatheti- 
cally. "I  see.  That's  what's  troubling  you.  I  knew 
something  was  the  matter  with  you — and  I  presume  that 
that's— part  of  it." 

"Yes,"  Bainbridge  admitted,  hanging  his  head,  "that's 
—part  of  it.  It's— it's  a  good  deal  of  it." 

255 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"It  has  troubled  me  too — in  the  past.  It  doesn't  so 
much  now,  because — well,  because  it  depends  somewhat 
on  one's  point  of  view — on  one's  way  of  looking  at  one's 
fellow-men." 

Bainbridge's  bloodshot  eyes  asked  the  necessary  ques- 
tion without  words. 

"You  can  see  human  beings  from  the  angle  of  their  vice 
and  depravity,  in  which  case  you  despair  of  them  as — to 
use  your  own  word — as  rotten.  Or  you  can  see  them 
from  the  angle  of  their  struggle  with  evil,  in  which  case 
you  applaud  them  as  soldiers,  or,  like  Some  One  Else,  you 
have  compassion  on  the  multitude  because  they  are  as 
sheep  having  no  shepherd.  I  once — "  a  new  pause  gave 
emphasis  to  his  words  before  he  uttered  them — "I  once 
looked  upon  all  New  York  as  materialistic,  soulless,  de- 
bauched, besotted,  and  stupefied  with  success.  To-day — 
I  have  compassion  on  the  multitude — and  on  the  indi- 
viduals who  make  it  up.  I  know  them.  I  know  their 
greeds  and  their  lusts  and  their  impieties  and  their  crazes; 
but  I  know,  too,  the  fight  they're  making." 

"Some,  perhaps,"  Bainbridge  objected,  promptly;  "a 
few;  not  all." 

"Yes,  all — in  the  sense  that  to  get  rid  of  our  evils — 
social,  political,  personal — is  a  large  part  of  the  spirit  of 
the  day.  No  one  escapes  it  wholly,  not  the  most  indifferent 
or  selfish.  What  is  it,  for  example,  that  Mary's  been 
telling  me  about  Clorinda  Gildersleeve?  Taken  a  poor 
little  girl,  hasn't  she?  to  give  her  a  chance.  Clorinda 
Gildersleeve  is  the  type  of  the  great  American  pagan. 
She's  never  belonged  to  a  church,  nor  her  father  nor  her 
mother  before  her.  And  yet,  you  see!  She  reflects  the 
nobility  of  the  age,  of  her  surroundings." 

"In  one  respect,"  Bainbridge  agreed,  with  an  inward 

256 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

bitterness  of  which  he  tried  to  give  no  outward  indi- 
cation. 

"One  respect— if  it's  no  more  than  that— is  a  great 
deal.  It's  the  beginning  of  the  process  that  sooner  or 
later  will  include  all  respects.  Don't  be  in  too  big  a 
hurry.  Don't  try  to  go  faster  than  God.  I  used  to.  I 
don't  now.  Now  I'm  satisfied  to  watch  the  fight — and 
foresee  the  victory.  When  any  one  comes  to  me  now— 
or  I  go  to  him — and  I  learn  things  that  a  few  years  ago 
might  have  amazed  or  staggered  me — " 

"Then — what?"  Bainbridge  asked  the  brief  question 
as  a  man  who  hangs  on  the  reply. 

"Then — I  take  such  things  as  the  dust  of  the  battle. 
Where  there's  fighting,  blood  will  flow — raw  blood,  red 
blood — and  that's  always  an  ugly,  animal  thing — but  the 
big  struggle's  behind  it.  That's  what's  to  rejoice  hearts 
like  yours  and  mine — the  big  struggle  that's  going  on, 
not  only  in  our  churches,  but  outside  them — and  of  which 
such  an  action  as  Clorinda  Gildersleeve's  is  an  example. 
That's  what  I  see  now — right"  here  in  New  York — right 
here  in  St.  Mary  Magdalen's — where,  of  course,  the  fight 
is  as  fierce  as  anywhere." 

"Then  if — if  you  discovered  that  people  you  knew — and 
cared  for — were  guilty  of — of  great  sin — ?" 

"The  sin  wouldn't  be  any  the  greater  because  it  was 
committed  by  people  I  knew  and  cared  for.  I'd  treat 
people  I  knew  and  cared  for  as  I  should  treat  people  I 
didn't  know  and  didn't  care  for  at  all.  I'd  see  them  as 
soldiers  who've  been  struck  down  in  the  battle,  but  are 
likely  to  scramble  up  again  and  contribute  their  share  to 
the  big  victory  that's  to  be  won." 

"Ah,  but,  when  it's  something  that— that  touches  one- 
self— very  closely?" 

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THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"There's  one  thing,  Bainbridge,  that  touches  you  and 
me  more  closely  than  anything  else.  It's  that  no  man — 
and  no  woman — however  near — however  mistaken — how- 
ever debased — shall  ask  bread  of  us  and  we  offer  him  or 
her  a  stone.  When  there's  fighting  there  must  be  food; 
and  it's  our  part  to  bring  it.  I've  reached  the  time  in  life, 
and  I  may  say  of  experience,  when  I  don't  look  much,  and 
don't  think  much,  beyond  that.  Nor  do  I  mind  telling 
you  that  it's  the  hardest  thing  I've  got  to  do.  I'm  an 
organizer  by  nature;  I'm  a  business  man.  I  never  had 
spiritual  gifts.  I  used  to  think  it  a  fine  thing  that  I'd 
built  up  an  efficient  parish  with  everything  running  as  by 
clockwork;  and  perhaps  it  is.  We've  got  one  of  the 
biggest  incomes,  and  one  of  the  best  choirs,  and  one  of  the 
most  influential  congregations  in  the  country;  and  yet 
there  are  senses  in  which  I'd  rather  have  done  what  Clo- 
rinda  Gildersleeve  has  done  for  that  one  poor  little  waif — 
the  practical,  useful,  positively  definite  thing,  I  mean — 
than  be  responsible  for  it  all." 

"But  can  you  compare  undertakings  so  dissimilar?" 

"No,  perhaps  not.  All  I  mean  is  that  I've  given  so 
much  attention  to  the  machinery  that  I  haven't  thought 
enough  of  the  product  that's  turned  out.  Probably  I'm 
too  old  now  ever  to  do  very  differently.  But  you're 
young,  my  boy.  You'll  live  to  see  great  changes  in  the 
religious,  in  the  Christian,  world.  Possibly  you'll  have 
something  to  do  with  it — I  rather  think  you  will — with 
the  shaking  off  the  dead,  paralyzing  hand  of  the  past — 
and  the  opening  of  the  living  stores — and  the  unsealing  of 
the  living  waters — so  that  all — or  the  majority,  at  least — 
will  be  eager  to  come — and  eat  and  drink." 

Bainbridge  sat  silent,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  fore- 
head bowed  upon  his  hands,  his  eyes  staring  vacantly  at 

258 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

the  floor.  They  stared  vacantly  because  his  vision  was 
an  inner  one.  It  was  like  the  lifting  of  another  veil,  be- 
yond the  veil  that  had  been  raised  for  him  that  afternoon 
and  hard  on  which  the  dark  horizon  had  shut  down.  The 
horizon  now  began  to  melt  away,  revealing  not  so  much 
an  outlook  as  a  mist — but  a  mist  glorified  and  sun-shot, 
through  which  a  man  might  feel  his  way. 

When  he  had  again  raised  his  head,  New  York — the 
world — the  universe — had  suddenly  become  more  spacious. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IT  was  one  of  the  rare  nights  in  his  life  during  which 
Bainbridge  did  not  so  much  as  go  to  bed.  The  hours 
passed  without  his  noticing,  as  he  tramped  from  the  study 
into  the  dining-room  and  back,  returning  ever  and  again 
on  his  footsteps.  It  was  between  two  and  three  in  the 
morning  when  he  heard  a  stirring  and  a  whispering  in  the 
hall,  after  which  Wedlock,  a  grotesque  little  figure  in 
carpet  slippers  and  one  of  Bainbridge's  old  dressing-gowns, 
which  was  too  long  for  him,  appeared  on  the  threshold. 

His  tone  was  distressed  and  pitying.  "Can't  you  sleep, 
sir?  No  more  can  I;  no  more  can  Mrs.  Wedlock,  in  a 
manner  of  speaking.  She's  sent  me  to  ask  if  you  couldn't 
heat  a  little  something,  sir.  There's  plenty  o'  cold  meat 
in  the  'ouse,  for  you  didn't  'ardly  touch  nothink  for  your 
dinner." 

Bainbridge  stopped  in  his  walk  just  long  enough  to 
say:  "No,  Wedlock,  thank  you.  I'm  quite  all  right.  Go 
back  to  bed,  and  Mrs.  Wedlock  too." 

But  Wedlock  insisted.  Directed  by  his  wife  in  loud 
whispers  from  the  hall,  he  brought  a  bottle  of  milk  and  a 
plate  of  crackers,  and  laid  them  on  the  dining-room  table. 
"  Try  to  heat  a  little,  sir.  Wakefulness  ain't  often  nothink 
but  having  nothink  in  the  stomach." 

Bainbridge  thanked  him,  nibbled  a  cracker,  drank  a 
glass  of  milk,  and  sent  the  old  couple  back  to  bed.  Then 

260 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

he  resumed  his  pacing,  his  head  bent,  his  hands  in  the 
pockets  of  his  house-jacket. 

The  subjects  of  his  meditation  were  mixed,  but  not 
confused.  They  blended  with  one  another,  they  modi- 
fied one  another,  and  yet  remained  distinct. 

Weaving  itself  in  with  everything  else  was  the  knowl- 
edge that  Leslie  was  the  man.  He  had  no  necessity  to 
return  to  the  thought,  since  it  was  always  there,  the  one 
constant  factor  in  his  silent  debate.  In  vain  he  put  it  to 
himself,  "What  difference  does  it  make  whether  it  was 
he  or  not,  so  long  as  you  knew  it  was  some  one?"  It  did 
make  a  difference,  yet  what  he  couldn't  say.  Though 
every  nerve  in  his  system  revolted  against  the  fact,  it 
kept  beyond  his  analysis.  All  he  could  say  was  that  it 
brought  the  sin  nearer;  it  forced  it  under  his  eyes;  it 
made  him,  in  a  measure,  a  partaker  of  its  ... 

He  fought  with  himself  over  the  right  word.  The 
eternal  battle  between  the  spirit  and  the  flesh  took  place 
all  over  again  in  his  soul.  What  was  lawful  and  what  was 
sin?  What  was  permissible  to  human  nature  and  what 
was  denied?  What  was  purity  and  what  was  mere  con- 
ventionality? What  was  the  power  that  could  sanctify  in 
one  set  of  conditions  that  which  it  condemned  in  another, 
and  what  was  the  compelling  motive  for  either  course? 
What  was  passion?  What  was  love?  How  far  could  the 
one  excuse  the  other,  and  perhaps  give  it  consecration? 
Were  the  so-called  sins  of  the  flesh  the  most  polluting  of 
sins,  or  were  the  sins  of  the  spirit  the  greater?  The 
world  would  overlook  lying  and  dishonesty  and  treachery 
and  ingratitude  and  the  evil  tongue  to  throw  its  emphasis 
here;  but  was  he,  the  professed  servant  of  God,  the  slave 
of  Christ,  the  doulos  Christou,  as  St.  Paul  would  have 
called  him,  to  see  only  in  this  half-light  and  with  this 

261 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

semi-paralyzed  eye?  Was  his  outlook  not  to  be  wide  and 
tolerant  and  unjudging? 

It  was  morning  before  he  came  to  definite  conclusions. 
In  reaching  Good  he  reached  God;  and  in  reaching  God 
he  should  be  walking  on  his  native  ground,  where  he  knew 
he  could  find  the  way.  When  his  imagination  flew  on  to 
situations  he  knew  he  should  have  to  face,  and  he  began 
to  combine  the  possible  circumstances  in  which  he  might 
have  to  face  them,  he  was  met  by  a  command  to  which 
he  had  never  paid  any  attention  before,  "Neither  do  ye 
premeditate."  He  paused  in  his  walk,  recognizing  the 
harm  he  had  done  to  himself  all  his  life  by  his  tendency  to 
foresee  conditions  and  prepare  for  them  in  ways  which 
hadn't  come  to  pass.  He  repeated  the  familiar  words 
which  he  had  never  till  this  minute  considered  as  appli- 
cable to  himself:  "When  they  shall  lead  you  and  deliver 
you  up,  take  no  thought  beforehand  what  ye  shall  speak, 
neither  do  ye  premeditate;  but  whatsoever  shall  be  given 
in  that  hour  that  speak  ye."  It  was  like  a  new  dis- 
covery to  him  that  by  the  simple,  if  difficult,  process  of 
keeping  in  touch  with  Good  it  would  be  given  him  "in 
that  hour"  what  he  should  speak  and  do.  Comforted  and 
fortified,  he  resumed  his  walk,  while  more  and  more  life 
resolved  itself,  not  into  belief  and  hope  and  uncertainty 
and  fear  and  tradition  and  the  petitionings  to  which  he 
had  hitherto  given  the  name  of  prayer,  but  into  conduct. 
If  by  anything  he  could  do  others  were  to  benefit  and  the 
petrifying  become  active,  it  must  be  through  the  demon- 
stration of  power.  When  he  asked  himself  how,  the 
answer  came  that  "it  would  be  given  him." 

Though  it  had  been  a  night  of  suffering,  it  was  suffering 
which  led  at  least  to  some  result.  It  was  an  obscure 
result,  in  that  it  prescribed  nothing.  There  was  no  direct 

262 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

course  for  him  to  take,  no  precise  thing  for  him  to  do,  no 
line  to  mark  out  beforehand.  His  task  was  to  wait  and 
see — and  act  as  light  should  be  given  him.  "In  thy  light 
shall  we  see  light.  That  was  the  true  light  which  lighteth 
every  man  that  cometh  into  the  world,"  was  the  kind  of 
answer  with  which  his  doubts  and  questionings  were  met. 
"Who  art  thou  that  judgest  another  man's  servant?  To 
his  own  master  he  standeth  or  falleth,"  came  to  him  at 
last  as  the  key  to  his  mental  attitude  toward  Leslie  and 
Clorinda.  They  were  not  his  servants.  To  their  own 
master  they  stood  or  they  fell,  without  his  responsibility. 
To  reduce  himself  to  inaction  toward  them,  to  positive 
inaction  of  thought,  was  at  once  a  relief  and  a  trial. 
Having  accomplished  it  with  more  or  less  success,  he  felt 
very  small  and  useless,  very  tired  and  worn. 

He  went  to  the  window  and  threw  it  open,  drawing 
long  breaths  of  the  sharp  winter  morning  air.  It  was  not 
yet  dawn,  and  the  stars  were  still  visible,  but  darkness 
had  passed  into  a  blue-gray  shimmer  against  which  the 
nearer  buildings  were  dense  black  silhouettes,  while  the 
cubes  and  towers  farther  off  were  aerial  and  tremulous. 
With  a  murmur  like  a  long-drawn  sigh  the  city  was  awak- 
ing. From  somewhere  near  by  there  came  a  sound  of 
early  church  bells.  More  distinctly  the  clanging  of  elec- 
tric cars  cut  harshly  on  the  stillness.  In  the  neighboring 
streets  wheels  creaked  over  the  frozen  snow  and  occasional 
footsteps  crunched.  Now  and  then  a  voice  had  a  solitary 
weird  effect  in  this  stirring  that  was  almost  voiceless. 
And  in  and  through  and  over  and  under  all  other  sounds 
were  a  tremor  and  a  whir  which  he  could  only  compare  to 
the  humming  of  millions  upon  trillions  and  banks  and 
masses  of  bees. 

If  during  the  morning  he  had  a  surprise  it  was  that  the 

263 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

hours  produced  so  little.  In  the  course  of  his  duties  he 
saw  a  good  many  people,  but  there  was  nothing  to 
distinguish  these  interviews  from  others  of  the  kind. 
Nothing  new  was  revealed;  nothing  was  "given  him." 
Without  "premeditating"  he  had  not  been  able  to  keep 
himself  from  expecting.  He  had  expected  the  striking  at 
each  turn,  the  memorable  and  dramatic;  and  all  was  as 
before.  The  curtain  was  still  down,  but  no  flash  came  out 
of  the  cloud. 

He  drew  the  conclusion  that  this  guiding  light  was 
reserving  itself  for  the  meetings  that  would  take  place 
between  himself  and  the  three  or  four  other  main  actors 
in  the  piece  of  which  involuntarily  he  felt  himself  the 
center.  There  would  be  much  that  was  terrible  to  say 
and  do;  and  he  should  receive  his  true  prompting  then. 
In  the  mean  time  he  kept  himself  as  best  he  could  from 
anticipation,  only  putting  his  expectancy  a  little  further 
off. 

But  he  called  on  the  light  to  come  to  his  aid  when,  on 
approaching  Mrs.  Gildersleeve's  house  in  the  early  part 
of  the  afternoon,  he  beheld  Mary  Galloway  coming  down 
the  steps.  Then,  if  ever,  he  needed  inspiration.  He  needed 
it  the  more  because  of  feeling  sure  of  what  had  happened. 
If  he  had  not  guessed  it  from  some  inward  spirit  of  divina- 
tion, he  must  have  read  it  from  the  manner  in  which  the 
trim,  dainty  little  figure  moved.  Though  there  were  but 
three  steps  to  descend,  she  paused  on  each,  pressing  her 
left  hand,  which  held  her  muff,  to  her  side,  not  so  much 
like  a  person  in  pain  as  one  in  agitation. 

As  she  turned  and  walked  with  bent  head  in  his  direc- 
tion he  was  not  free  from  the  hope  that  she  would  pass 
without  seeing  him;  but  at  the  instant  when  about  to  do 
so  she  looked  up.  There  was  then  a  fragment  of  a  second 

264 


during  which  each  stood  still,  gazing  at  the  other.  That 
is,  it  seemed  like  gazing,  though  the  time  was  insufficient 
for  more  than  a  brief  resting  of  the  eyes.  On  her  side  it 
was  occupied  with  the  effort  to  get  herself  under  control; 
on  his  with  the  dismay  of  seeing  that  she  was  obliged  to 
do  so.  Even  if  he  had  never  unwillingly  drawn  certain 
inferences  for  himself,  the  gossip  of  their  common  friends 
would  now  have  induced  a  condition  of  self-consciousness. 

As  it  was  he  became  obliged  to  note  the  successive 
phases  of  emotion  through  which  she  passed  so  quickly 
that  only  a  trained  mind  could  have  observed  them. 
Surprise,  alarm,  mortification,  bravado  which  developed 
into  courage,  followed  on  one  another  so  closely  as  to  make 
a  blend.  Though  only  the  last  remained,  he  had  seen  them 
one  by  one.  To  a  man  who  knew  her  less  well  the  smile 
she  was  able  to  force,  and  the  frankness  with  which  she 
held  out  her  hand,  might  easily  have  been  deceptive;  but 
for  him  they  were  nullified  by  the  pinched,  drawn  look 
he  had  lately  remarked  in  her  face,  as  well  as  by  the 
poignant  inquiry  he  now  read  in  her  eyes. 

The  inquiry  remained  inquiry,  full  of  questioning,  full 
of  doubt,  as  she  said,  with  her  hand  firmly  clasping  his: 
"Clorinda  has  been  telling  me  the  most  wonderful  thing. 
I  do  hope  you  may  be  very,  very  happy." 

He,  had  presence  of  mind  enough  to  notice  a  choice  of 
words  which  seemed  to  have  been  made  for  the  purpose 
of  being  non-committal.  He  responded  with  the  greater 
fervor:  "I  know  we  shall  be;  but  thank  you  all  the  same." 
Making  an  effort  to  carry  off  the  situation  easily,  he  said 
further:  "I  should  have  told  your  father  and  mother  at 
once,  only  that  I  didn't  know  Clorinda  wanted  it  to  come 
out  so  soon." 

Behind  her  laugh,  which  endeavored  to  be  light,  he 

18  265 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

guessed  at  some  measure  of  troubled  intention.  "Perhaps 
she  didn't ;  but  I  surprised  the  secret.  Sir  Malcolm 
Grant  let  out  so  much  that  poor  Clorinda  was  obliged  to 
tell  me  the  rest." 

"Oh,  is  he  there?" 

He  was  vexed  with  himself  for  the  irritation  with  which 
the  question  slipped  out,  and  the  more  so  when  her  sudden 
gravity  seemed  to  acknowledge  that  he  had  an  excuse. 
"He  was;  he  isn't  now.  He  lunched  there;  but  he  went 
away  shortly  after  I  arrived." 

He  was  aware  of  partially  letting  down  his  bars  from 
the  tone  in  which  he  exclaimed:  "But  I  thought  he  had 
gone  to  Kentucky." 

"He  left;  but  he  was  recalled.  The  Canadian  Govern- 
ment has  appointed  him  to  a  permanent  position  in  New 
York.  As  they  seem  to  need  him  here  at  once,  they've 
sent  another  man  to  buy  the  horses." 

Having  given  this  information  and  repeated  her  con- 
gratulations with  a  greater  freedom  of  aplomb,  she  bade 
him  good-by.  He  realized  after  she  had  gone  that  what 
he  had  hoped  for  had  not  come.  No  special  light  had 
been  vouchsafed  to  him.  In  the  presence  of  this  girl,  who 
was  suffering,  he  had  been  stupid  and  null. 

The  door  was  opened  to  him  by  Pansy  Wilde,  delicately, 
and  almost  adorably,  pretty  in  the  black  dress  and  jaunty 
white  apron  which  seemed  to  be  her  uniform.  "Mr. 
Hindmarsh  is  out,  sir,"  she  smiled,  timidly,  in  reply  to 
Bainbridge's  question,  as  he  took  off  his  overcoat.  "He 
asked  Mrs.  Gildersleeve  if  I  might  answer  the  door  for 
him,  and  she  said  I  could." 

"And  you're  getting  along  all  right?" 

There  was  a  bright  look  in  the  face,  though  she  hung 
her  head.  "Oh  yes,  sir!" 

266 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

"Better  than  at  the  Home?" 

The  tone  was  even  more  eager.    "Oh  yes,  sir!" 

"And  the  other  maids  are  nice  to  you?" 

The  voice  fell  to  uncertainty.     "Yes,  sir." 

"And  Hindmarsh,  too?" 

"Oh,  he's  all  pie!    He's  lovely." 

"And  you've  seen  your  mother?" 

"Yes,  sir;  she  come  last  night."  She  glanced  up  to 
say  in  a  virtuous  tone,  "I — I  asked  her  pardon." 

"That's  right,  Pansy.  You  must  try  to  be  a  good 
daughter  to  her  now.  Be  gentle  and  kind  to  every  one, 
and  don't  answer  back,  whatever  the  other  maids  may 
say  to  you — " 

Cheek  and  eye  brightened.  "Mr.  Hindmarsh  said  that 
if  they  was  saucy  to  me  I  was  to  tell  him.  He  said  he'd 
settle  their  hash  for  them." 

"I  wouldn't  do  that,  either,  Pansy,  if  I  were  you.  If 
you  have  anything  to  bear,  bear  it — and  keep  quiet. 
That's  what  helps  us  most  in  the  long  run." 

Renouncing  the  joy  of  battle  with  some  regret,  Pansy 
said,  "Yes,  sir,"  docilely,  and  he  continued  on  his  way 
up-stairs. 

He  saw  at  once  that  Clorinda  was  not  only  nervous  and 
excitable,  but  more  demonstrative  than  on  any  previous 
occasion.  Those  tendernesses  which  he  had  had  to  beg 
from  her  she  offered  of  her  own  accord,  coming  forward 
to  meet  him  on  the  threshold  and  locking  her  hands  about 
his  neck.  "I'm  so  glad  you've  come,"  she  whispered. 
"I've  wanted  you  so." 

Never  had  he  seen  her  so  charming,  so  welcoming. 
Never  had  she  been  more  eager  to  please  him,  to  have 
him  command.  Never  had  her  touch  been  lighter,  her 
movements  more  graceful;  never  had  she  come  so  near 

367 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

to  him  on  the  simple  ground  of  woman  coming  near  to 
man.  If  she  had  had  it  in  her  mind  to  bewitch  him  with 
the  fascinations  that  would  most  readily  get  possession  of 
his  senses  she  would  have  borne  herself  in  just  this  way. 
She  was  simple  and  noble  and  caressing  and  feminine, 
now  in  turns,  and  now  all  at  once. 

He  was  both  enchanted  and  appalled.  How  should  he 
tell  her  what  he  knew?  How  should  he  share  or  mitigate 
or  forestall  what  must  of  necessity  be  her  moment  of 
humiliation?  Inwardly  he  begged,  he  prayed,  for  the 
promised  light.  While  he  watched  her  and  smiled  and 
responded  to  her  moods  he  was  saying  to  himself  that  the 
veil  was  still  down,  thicker  than  ever,  a  darkness  where 
he  hoped  for  a  pillar  of  fire,  and  he  knew  neither  what  to 
say  nor  what  to  do. 

But  he  waited.  While  she  talked,  somewhat  inconse- 
quentially, on  subjects  of  no  importance,  he  made  the 
necessary  responses,  but  he  did  no  more.  The  workings 
of  his  mind  were  not  only  complicated;  they  were  self- 
contradictory.  With  one  set  of  his  faculties  he  enjoyed, 
as  only  a  lover  can  enjoy,  the  spell  she  cast  over  him;  with 
another  he  found  himself,  in  spite  of  his  warnings  of  the 
previous  night,  again  accusing  her  of  treachery  to  Maggie 
Palliser;  with  still  another  he  was  trying  to  anticipate 
her  shame  when  he  should  have  to  tell  her  that  her  treach- 
ery was  known.  Between  the  humanly  tender  in  him  and 
the  sacerdotally  severe  the  struggle  was  so  equal  that 
they  negatived  each  other,  rendering  him  powerless. 
"Who  is  sufficient  for  these  things?"  he  asked  himself, 
becoming  only  the  more  certain  that  unless  the  longed-for 
guidance  were  given  him  he  should  be  lost. 

Clorinda  was  restless,  moving  unquietly  about  the  room, 
changing  the  position  of  an  ornament,  a  vase  of  flowers, 

268 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

or  a  bit  of  furniture,  not  because  it  was  out  of  place,  but 
because  she  couldn't  keep  still.  He,  too,  was  restless. 
When  she  rose,  he  rose;  when  she  reseated  herself  he 
paced  about;  when  she  sprang  up  he  was  as  likely  as  not 
to  sit  down.  They  were  both  standing,  however,  when 
he  threw  into  the  conversation,  abruptly,  "I  met  Mary 
Galloway  as  I  came  in." 

"Oh,  poor  Mary!"  she  continued,  as  she  straightened  a 
beflowered  Chelsea  shepherd  and  shepherdess  on  the 
cabinet  beside  her.  "I  told  her.  I  thought  it  best." 

"Best  to  tell  her,  or  best  to  tell  every  one?" 

"Both.  I'd  a  lot  of  reasons  for  thinking  she  oughtn't 
to  be  taken  by  surprise."  She  stood  back  to  consider  the 
effect  of  the  figurines.  "Seeing  her  as  often  as  I  do,  I 
can't  help  knowing —  You  see,  if  I  hadn't  intervened, 
poor  Mary — "  She  'allowed  him  to  finish  both  of  these  sen- 
tences for  himself  as  she  hurried  on.  "And  she's  such  a 
dear.  No  one  knows  how  good  she  is  better  than  I  do.  In 
spite  of  all  I've  done  to — to  upset  the  sweet  thing's  plans, 
she's  as  nice  to  me  as  ever.  Why  is  it  that  the  people  who 
are  so  true  and  loyal  and  strong  always  have  to  be  the 
ones  to  suffer  most?"  She  went  forward  to  move  the 
shepherdess  by  the  fraction  of  an  inch.  "And  then  I 
think  we  may  as  well  tell  every  one.  I  want  to  tell  every 
one.  I  shall  write  some  notes  to-night  and  post  them. 
Then  we  shall  have  burnt  our  bridges,  sha'n't  we?" 

Notwithstanding  the  wild  mixture  of  his  emotions,  he 
was  hurt  by  the  figure  of  speech.  "Is  burning  our  bridges 
the  right  term?" 

"Isn't  it?"  She  threw  him  a  quick  look.  "You're 
doing  a  daring  thing — and  so  am  I." 

He  was  aware  of  the  opening  for  gallantry  he  was  over- 
looking as  he  said,  "What  daring  thing  are  you  doing?" 

269 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"I'm  marrying  the  assistant  rector  of  St.  Mary 
Magdalen's.  Isn't  that  enough?  If  anybody  had  asked 
me  a  year  ago  to  name  the  most  impossible  thing  that 
could  happen  to  me,  I  should  have  said  that — if  I'd  thought 
of  it — but  then  I  never  should  have  thought  of  it." 

"And  do  you  regret  it?" 

Once  more  she  came  and  interlocked  her  fingers  about 
his  neck.  "No;  I'm  glad.  He's  doing  much  more  for  me." 

He  watched  the  flame  moving  under  water  in  her  pro- 
found dark  eyes.  "What's  he  doing  for  you?" 

"He's  saving  me." 

"Saving  you  from" — he  had  intended  to  say,  "from 
what,"  but  he  made  it  quickly,  "from  whom?" 

She  released  him  brusquely,  with  the  fatalistic  flinging 
out  of  her  arms  which  was  one  of  her  characteristic  ges- 
tures. "From  myself  first  of  all." 

"And  then?" 

He  thought  he  detected  a  weary  or  exasperated  note  in 
her  voice  as  she  moved  away  toward  the  other  side  of  the 
room.  "Oh,  I  don't  know.  It's  a  great  deal  to  save  me 
from  myself."  She  laughed  uneasily.  "  You  mustn't  ask 
me  too  many  questions." 

"Malcolm  Grant's  been  here,  hasn't  he?"  He  intro- 
duced the  name  chiefly  because  she  hadn't  done  so. 

"Yes."  The  calculated  indifference  with  which  she 
brought  out  the  word  seemed  to  him  to  betray  her.  "He 
was  ordered  back.  He  came  to  tell  me." 

"What  made  him  think  you  would  care  to  know?" 

"The  fact  that  I  do,  I  suppose.  Please  don't  break 
that  chair."  She  returned  to  him  to  lift  his  hands  from 
the  back  of  a  small  gilded  chair  on  which  he  was  leaning 
with  nervous  heaviness.  As  she  did  so,  she  smiled  and 
touched  him  on  the  cheek.  ' '  You're  not  jealous,  are  you  ?" 

270 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

"That  wouldn't  be  the  word.    I'm—" 

But  she  hastened  to  interrupt.    "He  stayed  to  lunch." 

"So  Miss  Galloway  told  me;  but  I  can't  help  wonder- 
ing why  you  didn't." 

"I  should  if  you'd  given  me  time.  I  can't  say  every- 
thing all  at  once." 

"Why  should  you  have  asked  him?  You've  never 
asked  me." 

"I  didn't  ask  him.  He  came  just  about  that  time — so 
what  could  I  do?" 

He  allowed  the  explanation  to  pass.  Standing  with  his 
hands  behind  his  back,  he  asked,  gravely:  "Has  the  fact 
that  he's  here — permanently — anything  to  do  with  your 
eagerness  to — to  burn  your  bridges?" 

She  took  this  with  a  smile,  over  which,  however,  there 
was  a  shadow.  "If  it  has,  wouldn't  that  be  my  secret? 
It  seems  to  me  that  all  you've  a  right  to  know  is — that  I 
burn  them." 

He  allowed  this,  too,  to  pass,  not  because  he  was  satis- 
fied, but  because  he  recognized  some  justice  in  her  con- 
tention, without  agreeing  with  it  all.  Besides,  he  had 
more  important  matter  to  lay  before  her,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  moment  had  come.  That  much  he  could 
feel,  though  he  could  feel  no  more.  He  had  distinctly  the 
sensation  of  a  man  walking  in  pitch  darkness  when  he 
said,  quietly,  as  if  telling  her  a  thing  indifferent:  "I've 
been  talking  to  the  person  who  wrote  the  articles  about 
Leslie  and  Maggie." 

As  far  as  he  could  observe,  the  words  produced  for  a 
second  or  two  no  effect.  She  merely  stood  and  looked  at 
him.  If  there  was  any  change  in  her  it  was  that  she 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  grown  dull  of  intelligence, 

"  Talking  to  him?" 

271 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

He  did  not  correct  her  mistake.  He  had  seen  from  the 
first  that  Pansy  Wilde's  unwitting  betrayal  of  Miss 
Higgins  had  escaped  her  notice.  At  present  he  merely 
nodded — and  watched. 

There  was  something  worth  watching.  It  was  the  tran- 
sition from  vacancy  to  fear  in  Clorinda's  face,  and  from 
fear  to  a  kind  of  dumb  awaiting  of  her  sentence.  He 
could  read  what  was  passing  in  her  mind  as  plainly  as  if 
she  had  spoken  out.  If  he  had  talked  to  the  writer  of  the 
lines  that  had  annoyed  them,  then  he  knew  who  the  "cer- 
tain dark-eyed  woman"  was.  The  glamour,  as  far  as  it 
had  existed,  was  off  the  sin.  The  sin  itself  had  come  near 
home,  and  grown  not  merely  traitorous,  but  unspeakably 
vulgar  and  gross.  The  thin  covering  of  mystery,  not 
much  of  a  covering,  but  a  covering  all  the  same,  had  been 
snatched  from  her.  She  was  exposed  and  helpless. 

By  imperceptible  movements  she  crept  backward  from 
him.  Neither  noticed  the  process  till  she  was  farther 
away.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  his;  his  eyes  were  fixed  on 
hers.  Otherwise  there  was  nothing  but  this  slow  shrink- 
ing. It  seemed  an  eternity  before  she  spoke. 

"Well?" 

In  its  very  timidity  the  monosyllable  was  imperious. 
Something  he  must  say,  and  something  to  the  point.  It 
was  not  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  been  unequal 
to  a  great  occasion;  but  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  been 
unequal  to  an  occasion  as  great  as  this.  He  had  nothing 
to  say  at  all.  The  only  words  that  came  to  him  seemed  to 
be  addressed  to  himself,  and  they  were  but  an  echo  of 
what  he  had  heard  on  the  previous  night.  "I  have  com- 
passion on  the  multitude.  I  have  compassion;  I  have 
compassion."  He  knew  he  had  compassion,  so  that  the 
reminder  failed  of  its  effect. 

27? 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

During  another  space  that  was  like  an  eternity,  but 
which  was  not  more  than  a  few  seconds  long,  he  cried 
inwardly  for  the  light  to  make  itself  manifest.  He  must 
do  or  say  something  impressive.  Directly  or  indirectly 
the  sin  must  be  brought  home. 

But  the  veil  was  still  drawn,  impenetrable,  dark.  No 
message  came  out  of  it,  no  illuminating  flash.  He  felt  as 
though  somebody  else  was  replying  when,  in  answer  to 
her  laconic  demand,  he  said:  "Well,  the  articles  won't 
appear  any  more.  That's  settled.  Leslie  and  Maggie  can 
be  at  peace." 

Her  lip  quivered;  her  expression  became  child-like  and 
frightened.  It  was  with  a  child-like,  frightened  fluting 
that  she  began:  "But— but  how  did  they  know?" 

He  accepted  her  pronoun.  "They  didn't  know;  they 
guessed.  They — they  admitted  that  to  me.  They  knew 
Maggie  had  a  temper  and  that  Leslie  was  good-looking, 
and  so  they  put  two  and  two  together  and  invented  the 
situation.  That  there  was  some  truth  in  it  was  no  more 
than  a  happy  shot." 

Her  eyes  grew  wider  and,  if  possible,  more  child-like. 
His  pity  for  her  was  such  that  he  could  have  cried  out 
from  the  force  of  it.  But  he  was  listening  for  direction, 
watching  for  the  flash  out  of  darkness.  There  was  a  sense 
in  which  this  leading  had  the  first  place  in  his  mind.  It 
was  as  if  from  a  distance  that  he  heard  her  say:  "But 
the — other  person — the  woman — ?" 

As  there  was  neither  voice,  nor  any  to  answer,  nor  any 
that  regarded,  he  felt  impelled  to  respond:  "Oh,  that 
was  guesswork,  too.  She — they — told  me  so."  There 
was  a  sofa  near  her,  and  she  dropped  back  into  it,  sitting 
upright  in  a  corner  and  staring  at  him  with  a  kind  of 
wonder-fire  in  her-  eyes.  Again  he  felt  himself  urged  on 

273 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

to  add:  "Leslie  told  me  it  was  an  actress;  but  the  person 
who  wrote  the  articles  hadn't  heard  so  much  as  that. 
They  said  it  was  pure  invention — speculation  at  the  most 
— and  based  on  almost  nothing."  As  she  was  putting  her 
handkerchief  to  her  lips  in  a  way  he  had  never  seen  her  do 
before,  he  thought  it  well  to  give  her  further  assurance. 
"The  important  thing  is  that  they  expressed  regret  that 
their  careless  words  should  have  given  so  much  trouble, 
while  I  know  that  it's  not  to  happen  again." 

She  bowed  her  head.  Some  seconds  went  by  before  he 
perceived  that  she  was  crying.  She  was  crying  bitterly, 
almost  hysterically,  and  with  a  hint  of  laughter  in  her 
tears.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  seen  her  give  way 
to  such  emotion,  and  in  an  instant  he  was  kneeling  at  her 
feet.  When  he  tried  to  draw  her  to  him,  uttering  soothing 
words,  she,  like  Miss  Higgins,  yesterday,  seized  both  his 
hands  and  kissed  them. 

But  he  himself  was  wondering  why  his  confidence  had 
not  been  sustained.  Nothing  had  been  given  him.  Noth- 
ing had  been  said.  Nothing  would  ever  be  said  now. 
The  opportunity  had  gone  by.  Of  his  complicated  yearn- 
ings only  the  compassion  had  been  gratified;  and  the  veil 
was  as  closely  drawn  as  ever. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ON  making  his  way  between  Mrs.  Gildersleeve's  house 
and  that  of  the  Pallisers,  Bainbridge  could  only 
reason  that  the  guidance  on  which  he  had  counted  was 
being  reserved  for  his  interview  with  Leslie  and  Maggie. 
He  had  arranged  for  it  beforehand,  telephoning  that  he 
had  something  important  to  say.  Leslie  having  answered 
the  call,  Bainbridge  knew  by  his  voice  that  he  was  in  some 
trepidation.  Much  as  he  would  have  liked  to  spare  his 
old  friend,  he  felt  it  beyond  his  power  to  do  so,  repeating 
the  words  of  one  who,  three  thousand  years  before,  had 
tried  to  modify  the  Lord's  decree,  and  found  himself 
obliged  to  utter  it  even  against  his  will:  "The  word  that 
God  putteth  into  my  mouth  that  shall  I  speak."  He  was 
nothing  but  a  mouthpiece.  His  difficulty  lay  in  the  fact 
that  in  Clorinda's  case  the  mouthpiece  had  been  charged 
with  no  message.  If  the  same  thing  were  to  happen 
again.  .  .  . 

But  the  same  thing  couldn't  happen  again.  In  Clo- 
rinda's case  he,  Bainbridge,  had  not  been  sufficiently 
detached,  impartial.  He  loved  her  so  much  that  to  the 
subtler,  severer  inspiration  his  ears  had  been  dull  of  hear- 
ing. He  loved  Leslie  and  Maggie,  too — but  otherwise. 
It  was  not  in  such  a  way  as  to  put  him  out  of  the  question 
as  the  Lord's  instrument.  That  he  should  not  have  faced 
the  matter  with  Clorinda  was  a  failure  of  which  he  was 

275 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

ashamed;  but  since  they  were  to  have  their  life  together 
he  might  find  subsequent  opportunities  to  make  amends 
to  her. 

And  they  were  to  have  their  life  together.  With  her 
arms  about  him,  and  her  cheek  against  his,  she  had  whis- 
pered: "When  shall  we  be  married?  Can't  it  be  soon?" 

He  had  replied  that,  Lent  being  so  near,  they  would  prob- 
ably be  obliged  to  defer  this  happiness  till  after  Easter. 
She  had  argued  that  they  needed  no  preparation;  they 
had  only  to  walk  into  the  nearest  church,  St.  Mary  Mag- 
dalen's for  preference,  and  have  the  ceremony  blessed. 
There  they  had  left  the  question,  undecided;  but  the 
fact  that  it  had  been  raised,  and  raised  in  so  definite  a 
manner,  filled  Bainbridge  with  a  joy  which  was  only  the 
more  exciting,  certainly  the  more  dramatic,  for  the  ele- 
ment in  it  he  could  only  describe  as  acrid. 

In  Sixty-ninth  Street  he  found  Maggie  waiting  for  him 
in  the  library  with  a  kind  of  resigned  impatience.  "Well, 
Arthur,  what  is  it  now?"  were  almost  her  first  words  of 
greeting. 

"It's  good  news,  Maggie;  at  least,  I  hope  you'll  find 
it  so;  but  I'll  tell  you  when  Leslie  comes.  In  the  mean 
while  I  want  to  say  a  word  to  you'1 

"Well,  say  it."  Having  seated  herself,  with  hands 
folded  and  feet  crossed,  she  looked  up  at  him. 

There  were  points  of  view  from  which  she  was  not  the 
Maggie  Palliser  of  three  months  before.  Mental  suffering 
had  subdued  her  color  and  deepened  the  lines  of  her  face; 
but  through  being  less  blowsy  she  was  less  pronounced, 
and  through  being  less  pronounced  she  was  gentler  and 
not  so  masterful. 

Bainbridge  did  not  sit  down.  He  stood  over  her  in  an 
attitude  of  authority.  "You're  going  to  get  a  new  chance 

276 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

now,  Maggie,  to  see  Leslie  in  another  light,  and  I  do  hope 
you'll  make  good  use  of  it.  I've  told  you  all  along  you 
were  not  just  to  him — " 

"Has  he  been  just  to  me?" 

"Perhaps  not;  but  try  what  being  just  to  Mm  will  do  in 
the  way  of  making  him  so.  A  man  is  most  likely  to  put 
his  wife's  claims  first  when  she  does  the  same  with  his." 

"Wait  till  you're  married  yourself — and  you'll  see." 

"I  hope  to;  but  for  the  minute  we're  not  so  much 
occupied  with  me  as  with  you.  I  want  you  to  be  generous 
to  Leslie — " 

"Generous!  Why,  my  dear  man,  there  isn't  a  woman 
in  New  York  who's  been  more — " 

"Yes,  yes;  I  know.  You've  supplied  him  with  cash, 
and  so  long  as  he  was  willing  to  lick  your  hand,  you  were 
ready  to  do  it.  But  that's  not  enough.  You  must  give 
him  not  only  all  you  have,  but  all  you  are.  You  must  do 
it  once  for  all;  you  must  keep  nothing  back.  You  and 
everything  you  possess  are  to  be  his.  There  must  be  no 
more  doling  out.  He  must  be  master.  For  the  very  reason 
that  you're  a  big,  strong,  wealthy,  dominating  woman 
you  must  make  yourself  humble  and  small  and  obedient — " 

She  laughed  in  his  face.  "I've  heard  of  a  camel  going 
through  the  eye  of  a  needle — " 

"Which  was  said  to  be  an  easier  task  than  for  a  rich 
man  to  enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  and  I'm  afraid  it 
applies  to  a  rich  woman,  too.  You  know,  Maggie,  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  is  not  in  some  other  world;  it's  in 
this.  If  you're  going  to  enter  it  you've  got  to  enter  it  now. 
For  husbands  and  wives  a  large  part  of  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  is  in  what  they  can  find  in  each  other." 

Her  eyes  were  brimming  as  she  said:  "If  Leslie  had 
only  been  willing  there's  nothing  I  wouldn't  have — " 

277 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

"You  see,  Maggie,  you've  been  in  a  position  to  dictate 
all  the  terms;  and  you've  dictated  them.  You've  never 
taken  into  consideration  the  fact  that  Leslie  is  a  scholar 
and  an  artist,  that  he's  sensitively  independent,  and  that 
the  one  thing  under  which  he's  restive  is  rule.  Your  in- 
stinct is  to  rule,  and  you've  ruled  him.  That  is,  you've 
ruled  him  in  his  outward  conduct,  while  his  spirit  has 
been  miles  away  from  you.  I've  heard  you  say  that 
something  had  come  between  you  and  you  didn't  know 
what  it  was — " 

"  I  do  now.    It  was  other  women. ' ' 

"Wait  till  you  hear  what  I've  got  to  tell  you.  In  the 
mean  time  let  me  go  on.  You  could  give  orders  to  Leslie, 
and  he  was  obliged  to  obey  you,  because  he  had  no  money 
of  his  own.  You  used  the  advantage  your  money  gave 
you  to  keep  him  on  a  string.  But  you  could  only  keep 
his  body  on  a  string;  the  real  Leslie,  as  you  felt  accurately 
enough,  escaped  you.  It's  the  real  Leslie  you  need  for 
your  happiness,  and  so  long  as  you  keep  him  tied  you'll 
never  have  him.  Oh,  Maggie,  let  him  go  free — ' 

"But  I  tell  you  he  is  free." 

"  In  this  house  he's  just  as  free  as  I  am." 

"Well?    Aren't  you  our  dearest  friend — ?" 

"Exactly;  and  Leslie  is  in  precisely  the  same  place. 
The  other  night,  for  instance,  when  you  offered  to  send 
me  home  in  one  of  the  motors  because  of  the  storm,  I 
wasn't  to  tell  Leslie  if  I  wanted  it;  I  was  to  tell  you. 
Leslie  was  here  in  the  room  with  me,  and  you  were  up- 
stairs; but  I  was  to  send  a  servant,  or  do  something  like 
that —  No,  no;  let  me  go  on.  That's  a  small  thing;  but 
it's  significant.  It's  an  illustration  of  the  way  Leslie  has 
lived  with  you  for  nearly  ten  years.  He's  been  a  superior 
lackey — " 


SHE    WAS    CRYING    BITTERLY,    ALMOST    HYSTERICALLY,    AND    WITH    A 
HINT   OF   LAUGHTER   IN   HER  TEARS 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

She  flashed  out,  "A  superior  lackey  who  hasn't  hesi- 
tated to  make  me  a  laughing-stock  in  half  the  papers  in 
New  York — " 

"Not  half  the  newspapers  in  New  York,  but  one  paper 
only;  and  that  a  paper  which  has  acknowledged  to  me 
that  the  whole  story  was  a  myth." 

She  jumped  to  her  feet.  "Whole  story  was  a  myth? 
Why,  Arthur,  what  do  you  mean?" 

They  stood  confronting  each  other.  "I've  been  talking 
to  the  writer  of  the  paragraphs." 

Maggie  drew  a  long,  deep  breath.  Her  query  was  the 
same  as  Clorinda's.  "Well?" 

He  took  out  his  pocket-book,  and  from  its  contents 
selected  a  sheet  which  he  unfolded  and  lay  before  her. 
"Read  that." 

She  read  it  slowly.  Having  finished  it,  she  dropped 
back  into  her  chair  to  read  it  the  second  time.  "Well, 
Arthur,  you  do  beat  everything,"  was  her  only  comment 
as,  without  lifting  her  eyes,  she  began  on  a  third  persual. 
It  was  only  on  completing  that  that  she  looked  up  to 

,y,  "What  on  earth  do  you  make  of  it?" 

He  drew  up  a  small  chair,  on  which  he  sat  sidewise, 
his  arm  on  the  back.  "I  make  this.  The  paper  in  which 
the  paragraph  to  which  you  objected  appeared  is  more 
than  anything  else  a  fun-maker.  It's  a  peculiar  kind  of 
fun,  but  then  it's  a  kind  we  Americans  like.  In  it  we're 
all  handled  without  gloves  just  to  see  how  we'll  look. 
It's  not  meant  to  be  taken  seriously,  and  nine  readers  out 
of  ten  don't  take  it  so.  It's  our  form  of  caricature — of  the 
sort  of  thing  done  in  France  or  England  by  Spy  or  Sem 
or  Max  Beerbohm.  I  can't  say  that  I'm  enthusiastic  over 
the  genre,  but  neither  can  I  find  in  it  anything  worse  than 
what  I  say — not  in  intention.  Where  it  can  play  the 

279 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

mischief  is  where  it  accidentally  stumbles  on  a  bit  of  too 
poignant  truth." 

"Accidentally?    I  like  that." 

"It  was  accidentally  in  your  case.  The  writer  told 
me  so." 

"Who  was  it?" 

He  considered.  "It  was  some  one  who  has  no  more 
personal  ill  will  toward  you  than  Spy  toward  the  English 
statesmen  he's  drawn  so  amusingly." 

"Was  it  any  one  I  know?" 

"That  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you.  I'll  say  only  this, 
that  it's  some  one  who  has  to  earn  a  living,  and  this  ap- 
parently is  the  obvious  way.  I  don't  defend  it,  but  then 
I  don't  condemn  it.  It's  a  big  world,  and  if  we're  going 
to  make  the  best  of  it  we  must  let  the  principle  of  live  and 
let  live  be  something  of  a  guide.  It's  enough  to  say  that 
you  were  taken,  not  maliciously,  but  simply  as  a  person 
conspicuous  in  New  York  society,  and  made  to  serve  your 
turn.  Other  people  had  served  theirs,  and  yours  had 
come  round.  The  main  point  is  that  if  you  hadn't  given 
a  handle  by — now  don't  be  offended,  Maggie ! — I'm  going 
to  speak  straight  out! — if  you  hadn't  given  a  handle  by 
letting  your  temper  and  your  wilfulness  become  almost  a 
byword  in  the  town — " 

"The  main  point  is  that  if  Leslie  hadn't  taken  up  with 
some  other  woman  so  notoriously  that  everybody  knew  it — 

"No;  that  isn't  a  point  at  all,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  as  far  as  the  writer  was  concerned  it  was  pure  in- 
vention." He  continued  the  use  of  Clorinda's  pronoun. 
"They  told  me  so." 

She  leaned  toward  him,  her  eyes  almost  starting  from 
her  head.  "Arthur,  for  goodness'  sake,  what  are  you 
talking  about?" 

280 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

"I'm  simply  telling  you  what  the  writer  told  me— that 
the  dark-eyed  woman  was  merely  dragged  in  to  make 
drama.  You  can  see  for  yourself  that  a  story  in  which 
there  was  no  third  person,  in  which  you  and  Leslie  had 
it  all  to  yourselves,  would  have  lacked  spice;  and  so 
Clorinda  Gildersleeve  was  introduced  to  make — " 

Maggie  shouted.     "What?" 

"The  writer  had  passed  Clorinda's  house  and  seen 
Leslie  coming  out — twice,  if  I  remember  rightly — and 
thereby  hung  the  tale." 

"Oh,  my  God!"  She  threw  herself  back  in  her  chair 
while  a  big  explosive  laugh  shook  her  person,  and  rang 
through  the  room.  "Clorinda  and  Leslie !  Oh,  Lord,  how 
long!  No!  No!  That's  too  funny!" 

The  effect  was  what  he  had  hoped  to  produce.  "And 
it's  all  there  is  to  it — as  far  as  the  paragraphs  are  con- 
cerned. I've  the  writer's  own  word  for  it,  and  I  know 
it's  true.  They  were  going  by  in  Madison  Avenue,  and 
Leslie  was  coming  down  the  steps.  Then,  some  two 
months  later,  the  same  thing  happened,  and — 

"Does  Clorinda  know?"  Maggie  could  hardly  control 
her  mirth  sufficiently  to  get  the  question  out. 

"No.  I  saw  her  to-day,  but  I  didn't  tell  her.  Possibly 
it  may  be  better  not.  If  the  things  are  not  to  appear  any 
longer — " 

She  exploded  again.  "Pouff!  We  must  tell  Leslie — 
we  simply  must.  Clorinda  gets  on  his  nerves — " 

"Then  mightn't  it  be  wise  for  that  reason  not  to  say 
anything  about  it?  If  you  and  I  know,  may  it  not  be 
just  as  well  to  let  sleeping  dogs  lie?" 

Maggie  fairly  shook.    "Yes,  but  the  joke  of  it?" 

"He  might  not  enjoy  it  as  much  as  we." 

"Do  you  mean  that  we're  to  keep  it  to  ourselves?" 

19  281 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

She  struck  with  both  her  fists  on  the  arms  of  her  chair. 
"Man,  it's  too  good." 

"Still — "  He  hesitated  and  began  to  think.  He  had 
the  better  opportunity  for  the  reason  that  Maggie  was 
rocking  in  a  new  outburst  of  hilarity. 

"  Leslie  and  Clorinda !  No,  it's  too  funny !  When  I've 
all  I  can  do  to  make  him  stay  in  the  room  if  she  comes 
near!  He's  never  cared  for  her.  She  isn't  his  style." 

"You're  his  style,"  Bainbridge  said,  without  emphasis. 

Maggie  paused  in  her  laughter  to  give  him  a  look. 
"Oh,  me!  I'm  the  poor  old  thing  he  was  willing  to  make 
use  of  once  upon  a  time — " 

"He  told  me — or  as  good  as  told  me — only  a  few  days 
ago  that  he  was  in  love  with  you." 

She  quieted  down.    "Who?    Leslie?" 

"If  you'd  only  given  him  his  head,  Maggie,  and  let 
him  do  things  in  his  own  way,  and  have  things  his  own 
way,  and  be  master  in  his  own  house  .  .  .  ' 

They  discussed  this  all  over  again,  but  on  Bainbridge's 
part  only  as  a  by-product  of  his  intelligence.  What  he 
was  most  concerned  with  was  the  question  as  to  whether 
or  not  the  leading  he  expected  was  to  be  granted  him. 
As  far  as  he  could  see  as  yet  he  was  being  left  to  his  own 
devices,  which,  if  it  continued,  meant  that  he  would  fail 
with  Leslie  as  he  had  failed  with  Clorinda.  It  was  to 
gain  time  in  feeling  the  way  in  which  to  deal  with  this 
decorative  sinner  that  he  kept  going  over  so  much  of  the 
old  ground  again. 

He  was  pleased,  however,  to  see  that,  as  far  as  Maggie 
was  concerned,  he  was  gaining  by  his  arguments.  The 
idea  that  Leslie  was  in  love  with  her,  and  had  revealed 
the  fact  to  some  one  else,  had  not  been  without  its  effect. 
If  not  won  by  it,  she  was  softened.  That  which  was  most 

282 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

truly  Maggie  Palliser  was  only  too  ready  to  capitulate  on 
any  terms  that  would  bring  her  husband  back  to  her. 
Bainbridge  repeated  his  tale,  therefore,  not  once  nor 
twice,  explaining  how  an  anonymous  writer  had,  more  or 
less  innocently,  made  Leslie  and  herself  a  subject  of 
romance.  The  shots  were  of  a  kind  that  would  have  fallen 
harmlessly  away  from  them  if  there  hadn't  been  weak 
joints  in  their  harness.  It  was  for  them  both,  and  for 
Maggie  in  particular,  to  see  that  the  armor  was  mended 
for  the  future  and  made  impervious  to  such  easy  attack. 

"Oh,  well,  if  it  was  only  Clorinda  Gildersleeve," 
Maggie  exclaimed,  joyfully,  "I  can  forgive  him.  Of 
course  Clorinda  is  fine-looking  and  clever  and  she  has  a 
certain  charm — any  one  can  see  that ! — but  Leslie  wouldn't 
look  at  her  the  second  time  if  she  wasn't  a  kind  of  cousin 
of  mine.  We've  simply  had  to  be  nice  to  her.  Not  that 
one  wouldn't  be.  I'm  devoted  to  her,  for  all  that  she's 
so  moony  and  half-baked.  But — well,  I  shall  never  get 
over  that.  Who  the  dickens  can  the  fool  be  that  cooked 
up  such  a  yarn?  Some  woman,  I  bet  you!  Was  it  Bessie 
Wrenn?  It  was.  I've  always  said  she  had  something  to 
do  with  reporters.  Her  own  name  is  never  out  of  the  social 
columns.  And  she's  hated  Clorinda — why  I  don't  know; 
but  Clorinda  does  get  herself  hated;  her  head's  so  much 
in  the  air.  Then,  too,  there  was  something  left  out  of 
her  when  all  the  other  good  things  were  put  in;  but  as 
for  Leslie  and  her — well,  that  takes  the  cake!" 

"Perhaps  I  ought  to  tell  you,"  Bainbridge  said,  quietly, 
before  she  could  go  off  in  another  burst  of  merriment, 
"that  Clorinda  and  I  are  engaged  to  be  married." 

She  took  this  with  some  surprise,  though  without  being 
startled.  "  Oh !  So  it's  you,  after  all !" 

He  smiled,  perhaps  uneasily. 
283 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

"What  do  you  mean  by  after  all?" 

She  seemed  not  to  have  heard  the  question.  "What 
about  the  other  man — the  Canadian?" 

"Well,  what  about  him?" 

The  answer  came  slowly,  and  somewhat  doubtfully. 
"Oh,  I  don't  know — nothing,  I  suppose." 

"Then  why  did  you  ask?" 

"Oh,  for  no  reason.  On  general  principles.  With 
Clorinda—  " 

"Yes,  Maggie?    With  Clorinda— what ?" 

"Nothing,  nothing.  Only  one  never  knows  which  wav 
the  cat's  going  to  jump." 

"Did  you  expect  it  to  jump  that  way — the  way  of 
Malcolm  Grant?" 

"Good  Lord!  man,  how  can  I  tell?  It  hasn't  jumped 
that  way,  so  let's  be  thankful."  She  sprang  from  her 
seat.  "I'm  going  to  kiss  you,  Arthur.  No;  sit  still," 
she  commanded,  as  he  struggled  from  his  chair.  "There!" 
A  smack  resounded  on  each  of  his  cheeks  before  she  al- 
lowed him  to  rise.  "That's  to  wish  you  luck  and  to 
thank  you  for  all  the  good  you've  done  me.  I'm  going  to 
try  to  follow  your  advice.  Not  that  it  isn't  all  imagina- 
tion, what  you  think  about  my  attitude  toward  Leslie. 
Stuff  and  nonsense  it  really  is.  I've  never  tried  to  rule 
anybody  in  my  life — " 

"You've  just  done  it." 

"But  if  it's  going  to  make  Leslie  any  happier  I'll  go  to 
him  for  every  penny  I  spend,  and  make  him  believe  that 
it's  his  own  hard  earnings.  And  as  for  you,  Arthur  dear, 
if  Clorinda  does  marry  you,  she'll  make  you  a  wonderful 
wife — in  her  way." 

The  smile  with  which  she  now  regarded  him  was  so 
maternal  and  sympathetic  and  mournful  that  he  found  it 

284 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

impossible  to  hide  the  trouble  it  inspired.     "Maggie, 
what  makes  you  so  doubtful?" 

"I'm  not  doubtful.    I'm  only — wondering." 

"Wondering  what?" 

"Wondering,  I  suppose,  what  Clorinda  will  do  next." 

"Is  she  so  capricious?" 

"No.     I  shouldn't  say  she  was  capricious." 

"Irresponsible,  then,  or  inconsequential?" 

"No;  neither  of  them." 

"Then  what?" 

She  threw  up  her  hands.  "Good  Lord!  man,  I  don't 
know.  But  she's  not  like  other  people.  She's  a  relation 
of  mine,  and  I've  known  her  all  her  life — on  and  off.  Of 
late  years  I've  known  her  very  well  indeed — and  yet  I 
don't  know  her  at  all.  That's  flat.  She's  a  mystery.  The 
nearest  thing  I  can  say  is  that  when  you  see  her  and  talk 
to  her  the  real  Clorinda  isn't  there.  Where  she  is  Heaven 
only  knows.  I've  never  been  able  to  find  her." 

"But  if  I  have?" 

"Then  you're  luckier  than  most  of  us.  Who's  the  per- 
son in  mythology  that  turned  into  water  whenever  any 
one  tried  to  seize  him?  Well,  she's  a  little  like  that.  Why 
she  didn't  marry  Malcolm  Grant  in  the  first  place — 

"What  do  you  mean  by  the  first  place?" 

"  Oh,  years  ago.    I  mean  when  she  made  us  all  think — 

"If  she  had  her  reasons — " 

"Oh,  she  had  her  reasons!   She  always  has.    But  .  .  . 
She  held  out  both  her  hands.    "Anyhow,  Arthur,  I  wish 
you  luck.     I  don't  say  but  that  if  it  had  been  Mary 
Galloway — " 

"Don't,  Maggie,  don't,"  he  cried,  as  he  held  her  hands. 

"Then  I  won't.  Still,  I'd  have  been  easier  in  my  mind. 
Only,"  she  added,  reflectively,  "a  marriage  in  which  one 

285 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

is  easy  in  one's  mind  isn't  much  fun,  is  it  ?    It  must  mean 
an  awful  lack  of  pep.    Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  if  Leslie 
hadn't  kept  me  on  the  jump,  life  wouldn't  have  been  half 
£o  exciting ;  and  I  dare  say  you'll  find  it  so  with  Clorinda — 
if  she  does  marry  you.    Now  I'm  off  to  tell  Leslie." 
\  "Tell  him  first,  and  send  him  here  to  me  afterward." 
\"I  can  tell  him  this? — about  you  and  Clorinda?" 

"You  can  tell  him  everything — all  except  the  little 
joke  we've  decided  to  keep  to  ourselves." 

Left  alone,  he  was  able  by  sheer  mental  force  to  thrust 
into  the  background  the  great  query  that  seemed  to  sep- 
arate Clorinda  from  himself,  to  confront  the  scene  that 
must  take  place  between  him  and  Leslie.  When  Leslie 
came  into  the  room  each  would  know  all  about  the  other. 
Each  would  know,  without  shadow  of  reserve,  what  the 
same  woman  meant  and  had  meant  to  each.  They  would 
have  to  talk  with  hearts  strangely,  brutally  unveiled,  and 
reach  an  understanding  the  nature  of  which  was  beyond 
Bainbridge's  present  power  to  guess  at. 

After  Maggie's  noisy  talk  the  house  was  oddly  still. 
Bainbridge  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room — waiting. 
He  was  waiting  for  Leslie;  but  more  ardently  he  was 
waiting  for  that  voice  from  the  cloud  which  would  tell 
him  how  he  must  meet  his  old  friend. 

And  nothing  came.  That  was  the  agonizing  thing. 
Keeping  his  mind  as  empty  and  receptive  as  possible, 
there  was  nothing  to  fill  it.  He  was  without  inspiration, 
without  so  much  as  a  hint.  If  Leslie  appeared,  and  no 
suggestion  were  to  be  vouchsafed  him,  he  should  have 
either  to  utter  manufactured  speeches  or  be  dumb. 

Suddenly  he  found  himself  quoting,  inwardly:  "And 
my  speech  was  not  with  enticing  words  of  men's  wisdom; 
but  in  demonstration  of  the  Spirit  and  of  power." 

286 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

Of  course!    It  was  what  he  was  hoping  for. 

"Always  follow  the  kindest  course." 

The  words  were  no  more  than  reminiscent  of  a  past 
experience. 

But  the  snatches  came  more  rapidly,  with  something 
like  a  tumult  of  utterance  from  his  soul's  mother-tongue. 
They  followed  hard  on  each  other  like  shots  from  a  rifle. 

"Vie  with  one  another  in  eagerness  for  peace,  every  one 
minding  his  own  business." 

"Let  every  one  be  quick  to  hear,  slow  to  speak." 

"I  have  compassion'  on  the  multitude— I  have  com- 
passion." 

"Who  art  thou  that  judgest  another  man's  servant? 
To  his  own  master  he  standeth  or  falleth." 

"The  word  that  God  putteth  into  my  mouth  that  shall 
I  speak." 

And  the  Lord  had  put  no  word  into  his  mouth  at  all. 
If  lightnings  and  thunderings  and  voices  had  come  out 
of  the  cloud  they  had  had  no  bearing  on  Leslie. 

Minutes  passed  before  Bainbridge  drew  his  inference 
from  this.  When  he  did  so  it  was  with  some  amazement. 
"The  word  that  God  putteth  into  my  mouth  that  shall  I 
speak" — and  God  had  been  silent.  It  was  an  expressive 
silence,  and  an  eloquent.  He  tiptoed  softly  from  the  room. 

He  was  putting  on  his  outside  things  in  the  hall  when, 
from  Leslie's  little  study  by  the  door,  he  heard  a  voice. 
It  was  Maggie's  voice,  muffled  as  if  her  head  was  on  her 
husband's  shoulder.  "Haven't  we  been  fools?  Haven't 
we?" 

Something  inaudible  was  mumbled  on  Leslie's  part,  and 
Bainbridge  hurried  his  preparations. 

Maggie  was  speaking  again.  His  own  name  and  Clo- 
rinda's  were  all  he  caught.  He  hurried  to  the  door.  His 

287 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

hand  was  actually  on  the  knob  when  he  heard  an  irre- 
pressible exclamation  from  Leslie.    Was  it  a  laugh  or  an 
oath  or  an  expression  of  incredulity?    He  didn't  know. 
He  wanted  not  to  know — never  to  know.    He  was  out  in 
the  cold,  clear  twilight  of  the  city  without  knowing. 
.     Not  till  he  was  actually  standing  on  the  steps  with  the 
j  door  shut  behind  him  did  the  perspiration  break  out  on 
__>|~his  forehead.     He  hardly  knew  why,  unless  it  was  that 
he  had  escaped  a  danger.     If  so,  it  was  the  danger  of 
speaking — when  silence  was  of  God. 

He  saw  then  what  he  had  not  seen  hitherto.  The 
others  were  to  be  spared;  but  he  was  not.  He  must  drain 
the  cup  of  all  their  secrets,  while  they  were  to  be  left 
each  with  his  or  her  own.  Maggie  was  not  to  know  more 
than  she  knew  already — nor  Leslie — nor  Clorinda.  But 
he  was  to  know  everything.  He  was  to  carry  all  three  of 
them  where  he  had  carried  so  many  others  during  the  past 
four  or  five  years — in  his  heart. 

So  be  it;  he  was  ready;  he  was  able;  it  was  obviously 
best.  But  as  he  went  down  the  steps  and  made  his  way 
slowly  and  thoughtfully  toward  a  splendid  wintry  sunset 
the  inner  veil  seemed,  if  not  actually  lifted,  a  little  farther 
off. 


CHAPTER  XX 

IN  the  end  the  pressure  of  many  considerations  forced 
Bainbridge's  consent  to  a  marriage  before  Lent. 
What  reluctance  he  felt  was  on  Clorinda's  account;  and 
yet  her  persisting  eagerness  produced  its  effect  on  him. 
She  made  him  feel  like  a  man  holding  open  a  door  to  one 
who  was  running  from  a  danger.  The  existence  of  the 
danger  coming  to  be  admitted  by  both,  she  persuaded 
him  that  once  she  was  within  the  shelter  he  commanded 
there  would  be  nothing  more  to  fear. 

Then,  too,  he  began  to  realize  that,  after  all,  Leslie 
Palliser  had  been  right.  People  did  seem,  at  heart,  to 
be  in  favor  of  the  celibacy  of  the  clergy.  The  announce- 
ment of  his  engagement  came  to  the  members  of  St.  Mary 
Magdalen's  as  a  shock.  They  had  loved  and  honored 
him;  he  had  been  theirs  and  they  had  been  his.  They 
had  felt  in  him  an  ownership  to  which  they  had  never 
pretended  in  the  case  of  Doctor  Galloway,  on  whom  Mrs. 
Galloway  and  Mary  had  a  complete  proprietary  lien. 

Now  there  had  come  a  coldness  of  which  Bainbridge 
had  been  made  aware  from  the  morning  on  which  Clo- 
rinda's notes  of  announcement  had  been  received.  The 
congratulations  offered  him  were  worded  neatly  enough, 
but  behind  them  he  rarely  failed  to  notice  an  undertone 
of  reserve.  Had  his  choice  fallen  on  one  of  their  own  they 
might  have  felt  differently;  had  it  been  Mary  Galloway, 

289 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

the  match  would  have  been  so  fitting  that  there  would 
have  been  no  resentment.  As  it  was,  there  were  few  who 
didn't  feel  that  he  or  she  had  been  dispossessed  by  an 
alien  whose  legal  right  there  was  no  means  of  disputing. 
They  had  simply  lost  him,  and  there  was  no  more  to  be 
said. 

That  is,  there  was  no  more  to  be  said  by  that  minority 
who  make  the  principle  of  living  and  letting  live  one  of 
the  first  of  human  duties.  Swallowing  their  disappoint- 
ment, they  put  the  most  cheerful  aspect  on  the  new  turn 
of  affairs.  That  their  beloved  Mr.  Bainbridge  was  suffi- 
ciently fallible  to  be  captivated  by  a  woman  whom  most 
of  them  knew  slightly,  and  yet  were  compelled  to  regard 
as  strange,  elusive,  irreligious,  charming  with  a  curious 
pagan  charm,  but  refractory  to  the  yokes  to  which  they 
bent  their  own  necks — all  that  was  one  of  those  disillusion- 
ing bits  of  experience  to  which  wise  people  submitted  with 
the  least  possible  comment.  In  St.  Mary  Magdalen's 
there  was  no  small  number  who  took  this  stand  and  who 
resigned  themselves  as  people  must  when  a  leader  fails. 

Others  were  more  loquacious.  Mrs.  Endsleigh  Jarrott 
had  been  one  of  the  first  to  bring  him  her  good  wishes. 
"I'm  with  you  heart  and  soul,  dear  Mr.  Bainbridge," 
she  had  declared,  holding  his  hand  in  both  of  hers  and 
wringing  it,  "and  with  Clorinda,  too.  Knowing  you  both 
as  I  do,  I  can  see  what  others  can't,  and  I  know — I  know — 
you'll  be  right  in  ignoring  all  the  hubbub  and  talk  that 
people  are  making.  I  can  tell  you  they  won't  bring  their 
nonsense  to  me  the  second  time.  What  do  you  think?  I've 
as  good  as  fallen  out  with  Colfax  Pole  and  Bessie  Wrenn, 
and  as  for  old  Mrs.  Wrenn,  well,  I  wish  you  could  have 
heard  her.  Any  one  would  think  you  were  breaking  a 
contract  with  the  parish  in  getting  married  at  all.  I  tell 

290 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

them  that  if  you'd  picked  out  Mary  Galloway  they 
wouldn't  have  whispered  a  word;  but  now,  just  because 
you've  chosen  some  one  they're  all  afraid  of,  and  jealous 
of,  and  whom  they  don't  like  merely  because  she's  snubbed 
them  by  passing  without  seeing  them  ..." 

On  the  evening  of  that  day  he  received  a  note  from  old 
Mrs.  Pole,  begging  him  to  give  her  authority  to  contra- 
dict so  absurd  a  tale.  "It's  the  church  I'm  thinking  of, 
dear  Mr.  Bainbridge,"  she  wrote,  affectionately.  "We've 
all  had  such  hard  work  to  build  up  the  parish  that  we 
can't  afford  to  have  anything  pull  it  down,  now  can  we? 
Not  that  I'm  hinting  a  word  against  dear  Clorinda.  No 
one  is  a  warmer  friend  to  her  than  I  am — but  I  know  you 
understand.  I  tell  every  one  that  there's  not  a  syllable 
of  truth  in  it — that  of  all  the  men  in  the  world  you're  the 
one  who  can  be  trusted  to  do  nothing  unsuitable  or  con- 
trary to  the  interests  of  the  church — but  so  long  as  I'm 
not  authorized  to  make  the  correction  ..." 

To  this  sort  of  thing  he  knew  that  marriage  would  put 
an  end.  The  parishioners  might  not  take  him  back  into 
their  hearts  and  confidence,  but  they  would  cease  to  talk. 
He  would  probably  drop  into  some  such  place  in  their 
esteem  as  that  held  by  Doctor  Galloway,  whom  they  knew 
as  a  wise,  far-sighted  man  of  affairs,  but  to  whom  they 
never  carried  their  sins  and  sorrows,  because  Mrs.  Gallo- 
way, who  was  a  dear,  irresponsible,  roly-poly  thing,  was 
terribly  inquisitive.  In  his  confusion  of  mind  it  began 
to  seem  to  him  that  while  most  people  would  trust  any 
man,  no  one  was  willing  to  trust  any  woman — that 
women  would  trust  women  least  of  all — though  there 
might  have  been  a  willingness  to  make  an  exception  of 
Mary  Galloway.  The  conclusion  he  came  to,  therefore, 
was  that  the  sooner  he  was  married  the  sooner  he  would 

291 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

prove  to  his  parishioners  that  he  was  not  less  their  friend 
than  he  had  been  before,  though  it  hurt  him  to  perceive 
that  Leslie  had  been  right. 

As  for  Leslie,  he  had  met  him  only  once  since  the  day 
on  which  the  engagement  had  been  announced.  That  an 
understanding  which  was  practically  a  reconciliation  had 
been  reached  between  him  and  Maggie  he  had  been  told 
by  Maggie  herself. 

"And  I  had  to  tell  him  the  story  about  him  and  Clo- 
rinda,"  she  also  informed  Jiim.  "  It  was  so  good  I  couldn't 
keep  it  to  myself." 

Bainbridge  withheld  his  reproaches  to  ask  how  Leslie 
had  taken  it. 

"I  wish  you  could  have  seen  him.  He  was  so  furious 
that  he  went  simply  white.  He  couldn't  speak.  You 
know  he's  never  liked  Clorinda — never.  There's  some- 
thing about  her  that  offends  his  taste.  Leslie  has  awfully 
good  taste — I'll  say  that  for  him.  Well,  that  lasted  for 
about  a  minute,  and  then — he  just  roared.  I've  never 
heard  him  laugh  so.  I  thought  he'd  hurt  himself.  But  it 
wasn't  all  a  joke  with  him — no,  sir!  It  was  just  as  you 
said — he  was  as  mad  as  a  hornet  to  think  that  any  one 
should  have  coupled  their  names.  I'll  bet  it  was  Bessie 
Wrenn." 

After  that  both  Bainbridge  and  Palliser  kept  apart. 
The  former  had  begun  indeed  to  recognize  it  as  one  of 
the  difficult  tasks  of  his  future  life  to  feel  toward  Leslie 
any  of  the  old-time  friendliness.  That  it  must  be  done 
he  knew;  but  that  much  must  be  overcome  in  himself 
before  it  could  be  done  he  also  knew.  Fortunately — he 
could  use  the  word  now — Leslie  didn't  know  that  he 
knew;  Clorinda  didn't  know  that  he  knew.  He  recalled 
Leslie's  words:  "God  alone  knows,  and  I  propose  that 

292 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

God  alone  shall  know."  Bairibridge  was  happy  to  let  it 
be  so.  It  was  not  only  easiest,  it  was  best.  Leslie  and 
Clorinda  would  thus  be  able  to  meet  as  they  had  been 
meeting  in  the  past  three  years,  with  their  secret  between 
them,  not  suspecting  that  it  was  shared.  If  by  this  any 
one  should  have  to  suffer  more  than  he  or  she  had  suffered 
already,  it  would  only  be  himself. 

But  he  came  on  Leslie  quite  unexpectedly  in  the  library 
of  the  New  Netherlands  Club.  It  was  that  hour  in  the 
middle  of  the  afternoon  when  one  set  of  members  had 
gone  and  another  set  hadn't  come,  and  in  their  end  of 
the  big  room  they  were  face  to  face  and  alone.  Bainbridge 
happened  to  pass  in  front  of  the  chair  where  Leslie  was 
stretched  with  a  book.  The  latter  looked  up  with  a  start; 
with  a  start  Bainbridge  stood  still. 

And  then  that  mental  effect  took  place  which  the  latter 
had  dreaded.  At  sight  of  Leslie's  tall,  languid  form,  in 
the  easy,  fashionable  clothes  which  Maggie's  money  paid 
for — at  sight  of  his  lean,  well-shaven  face,  with  its  perma- 
nent, uniform  tan — at  sight  of  his  dreamy  eyes  with  their 
lashes  of  a  length  and  a  beauty  which  should  never  belong 
to  a  man — he  reconstructed  the  scene  the  veiled  woman 
had  sketched  for  him.  It  leaped  into  vision  before  him, 
the  sudden  electric  force  which  had  impelled  this  man  to 
Clorinda  and  Clorinda  to  him.  .  .  . 

All  the  self-control  of  which  Bainbridge  had  studied 
to  make  himself  master  was  taxed  to  its  utmost  in  that 
second.  It  was  taxed  not  merely  to  hold  him  back  from 
springing  on  Leslie  with  the'  lithe,  leopard-like  strength 
he  knew  he  possessed  and  beating  him  to  the  floor— that 
would  have  been  too  idiotic;  it  was  taxed  to  keep  him 
from  actively  and  consciously  hating  this  man  who  had 
been  his  most  intimate  friend  and  despising  him.  He  did 

293 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

despise  him.  He  recognized  the  fact  even  when  the  more 
passionate  prompting  had  passed.  He  knew  that  ever 
since  Leslie  had  given  up  his  work  at  Columbia,  and  had 
shown  himself  willing  to  live  on  Maggie's  money,  he, 
Bainbridge,  had  despised  him.  He  knew  that  during  the 
months  when  he  had  been  sounding  Leslie's  praises  to 
his  wife  and  endeavoring  to  make  a  pact  between  them, 
he  had  despised  him.  He  knew  that  when  Leslie  had 
confessed  his  infidelity  toward  Maggie,  and  invented  the 
story  of  an  actress,  he  had  despised  him.  He  had  de- 
spised him  too  profoundly  and  subconsciously  to  take  him 
to  task.  But  when  Miss  Higgins  had  made  revelations 
greater  than  she  was  aware  of,  then  Leslie  had  become 
to  him  little  less  than  an  object  of  loathing. 

All  this  having  passed  through  his  mind  with  a  rapidity 
more  than  cinematographic  he  was  obliged  to  take  himself 
in  hand.  He  mustn't  hate  Leslie;  he  mustn't  hold  him 
in  contempt.  The  very  reasons  he  had  for  doing  both 
must  put  him  on  his  guard  against  being  guilty  of  either. 
He  paused,  therefore,  and  smiled  in  a  way  that  could 
only  be  taken  as  friendly. 

"Well,  Leslie;  you've  heard  the  news?" 

He  was  in  a  position  to  follow  the  processes  of  Leslie's 
mind  as  well  as  if  he  was  a  spectator  at  a  play,  and  watch 
the  stages  of  his  pitiable  bluff.  When  Palliser  spoke, 
however,  it  was  without  raising  his  eyes,  and  with  a  kind 
of  sullen  uneasiness.  "Yes,  Arthur,  I've  heard  the  news; 
and  now  that  you've  been  and  gone  and  done  it,  of  course 
I  take  back  what  I  said  the  other  day.  If  I'd  been  think- 
ing of  anything  like  this — " 

Bainbridge  laughed,  with  a  bitterness  that  escaped  his 
companion.  "Well,  what  then?" 

"I  should  have  been  more  careful." 

294 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

"Careful  in  what  way?  You  told  me  the  truth.  People 
are  taking  it  just  as  you  said  they  would." 

"But  I  shouldn't  have  seemed  like  one  of  them — as  I 
must  to  you  now."  Bainbridge  could  see  him  summoning 
all  his  forces  to  help  out  his  little  comedy.  "Since  that's 
what  you've  set  your  heart  on  I  shall  back  you  up,  old 
boy.  Maggie  and  I  will  stand  by  you,  whatever  fools 
may  say." 

After  a  few  more  expressions  of  this  heartiness  Bain- 
bridge  thanked  his  friend  and  went  on  his  way.  But  he 
had  no  difficulty  in  appraising  Leslie's  state  of  mind.  He 
was  not  in  love  with  Clorinda  any  longer,  no  more  than 
she  with  him.  That  fire  of  paper  had  blazed  up  and 
burnt  itself  out  long  ago.  If  Clorinda  had  been  marrying 
any  one  else  Leslie  could  have  given  her  his  blessing.  But 
this  particular  marriage  shocked  him  to  the  core.  If  his 
sin  had  no  other  punishment,  it  would  be  retribution 
enough  that  he  should  have  to  stand  still  and  let  it  take 
place,  that  all  his  life  he  should  have  to  look  on  at  it  and 
say  nothing.  It  would,  however,  make  it  easier  for  him, 
if  easy  was  the  word,  when  once  the  marriage  was  a  thing 
accomplished. 

*1k.  He  felt  the  same  toward  Malcolm  Grant,  who  had 
become  an  unquiet  presence  oddly  pervading  New  York. 
Bainbridge  met  him  everywhere,  not  only  because  they 
had  the  same  group  of  friends,  but  because  their  common 
undertakings  with  regard  to  the  European  war  threw 
them  together.  Beyond  the  fact  that  they  were  frequently 
in  the  same  room,  actual  contact  between  them  was  rare; 
but  actual  contact  was  not  needed  to  make  each  intensely 
aware  of  the  other.  Though  they  so  seldom  spoke,  the 
silence  between  them  said  more  than  words,  filled  as  it 
was  with  strange  understandings. 

295 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

From  Clorinda  he  gathered  that  it  was  the  same  with 
her.  She,  too,  saw  Malcolm  Grant,  meeting  him  in  her 
path  whichever  way  she  turned.  Whether  this  was  from 
intention  on  his  side,  or  from  the  hazards  of  the  active  life 
they  were  leading,  she  didn't  know;  she  only  found  him 
there,  not  the  less  disturbing  because  he  said  little,  and 
that  little  of  no  seeming  importance.  Had  he  aimed  at 
weaving  a  spell  on  which  she  would  look  back  with  a 
thrill  even  while  she  ran  away  from  it  he  would  not  have 
borne  himself  otherwise.  "You  and  I  were  made  for  each 
other,"  he  seemed  to  assert  more  emphatically  than  if  he 
had  used  the  words.  "In  marrying  any  one  else  you're 
false  to  your  real  destiny." 

She  was  so  conscious  of  it — Bainbridge  himself  was 
so  conscious  of  it — that  they  ended  by  talking  of  it  plainly. 
She  seemed  indeed  willing  to  talk  of  it;  it  became  a  relief 
to  her. 

"It  wouldn't  matter  even  if  it  were  true,"  she  declared, 
in  some  excitement.  "Nothing  would  ever  make  me 
change  my  mind.  You're  more  to  me,  Arthur,  than  any 
one  in  the  world  could  possibly  be,  after  all  you've  done 
for  me.  As  for  him,  I  can  hardly  see  how  he  dares  to 
speak  to  me,  or  so  much  as  to  look  at  me,  considering 
what  he  once  said.  If  you  only  knew!  And  it  wasn't 
merely  what  he  said — it  was  the  thought  behind  it — the 
thought  that  was  worse  than  the  words.  Possibly  I  de- 
served it — but  if  so,  it  was  the  very  fact  that  I  did  deserve 
it  that  made  it  so  unforgivable.  If  I  hadn't  deserved  it 
I  might  have  ascribed  it  to  a  man  who  had  temporarily 
lost  his  senses,  and  so  have  forgotten  it.  But  when  a 
woman  had  gone  as  far  toward  a  man  as  I'd  gone — yes,  I 
admit  that ! — and  still  he  couldn't  pity  her,  or  spare  her — 
No,  Arthur,  no !  The  only  reason  why  I  see  him  at  all  is 

296 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

to  minimize  its  importance.    If  I  were  to  refuse  to  see  him 
he'd  know  he'd  given  me  a  death-blow." 

"A  man  must  mean  a  great  deal  to  a  woman  when  any- 
thing he  says  or  does  can  be  taken  by  her  as  a  death-blow." 

This  interpretation  of  her  words  took  her  by  surprise. 
She  gazed  at  him  a  moment  in  mild  consternation,  while 
she  made  up  her  mind  to  meet  the  charge  frankly.  "Well, 
he  did  mean  a  great  deal  to  me.  He  presented  a  way  of 
escape — the  kind  of  escape  I've  found  in  you.  You  must 
remember  that  the  very  first  time  I  saw  you — that  wonder- 
ful afternoon!— I  let  you  see  that  it  was  in  that  way  I 
looked  on  a  second  marriage.  It  was  to  be  redemption  to 
me.  I  didn't  think  of  it  as  first  of  all  a  question  of  love — 
not  on  my  side.  I  was  ready  to  love  any  good  man  who'd 
be  sorry  for  me  as  you've  been,  and  perhaps  understand 
me  a  little.  I  couldn't  have  helped  loving  him,  not  any 
more  than  a  dog  can  help  loving  the  man  who  takes  it  in 
and  gives  it  food  and  drink  when  it's  lost  and  starving. 
Oh,  Arthur,"  she  broke  off,  tragically,  "marry  me.  Marry 
me  soon.  Your  Lent  will  come  round  in  a  little  more  than 
a  fortnight.  Let  it  be  before  then.  You  don't  know  how 
grateful  I'll  be  to  you,  how  I'll  cling  to  you  and  worship 
you.  ..." 

And  so  the  date  was  fixed  for  the  Monday  before*Ash- 
Wednesday,  and  made  known  only  to  the  Pallisers  and 
Galloways.  For  reasons  Bainbridge  was  never  able  to 
fathom  Clorinda  also  confided  the  secret  to  Malcolm 
Grant  by  means  of  Mary  Galloway,  after  which  two  un- 
quiet presences  obtruded  themselves  on  the  prospective 
bridegroom's  field  of  vision. 

For  the  first  time,  too,  they  began  to  roam  side  by  side. 
A  coalition  between  Mary  Galloway  and  Malcolm  Grant 
was  so  unexpected  as  to  arouse  speculation.  Bainbridge 

20  297 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

noticed  them  frequently  together.  Sometimes  it  was  at 
the  breaking  up  of  a  meeting  on  the  subject  of  supplies 
for  the  wounded  at  which  Grant  had  been  the  chief 
speaker;  sometimes  it  was  in  the  street;  there  was  a 
Sunday  on  which  Grant  was  seated  in  the  rector's  pew 
and  went  to  the  rectory  to  lunch.  A  little  buzzing  went 
through  the  parish  as  to  the  consolation  dear  Mary  might 
find  in  the  society  of  the  rich  Canadian. 

And  Mary  was  as  much,  too,  with  Clorinda.  As  the 
wedding-day  drew  nearer  the  intimacy  between  them 
seemed  to  grow.  In  proportion  as  Clorinda  shrank  from 
Leslie  and  Maggie  Palliser — Bainbridge  noticed  that! — 
she  clung  to  the  only  woman  who  was  near  her  and  whom 
she  was  certain  she  could  trust.  In  this  trust  Mary  found 
apparently  an  assuagement  of  her  ache  at  heart,  and  of 
all  Clorinda's  expeditions  to  dressmakers  and  shops  she 
was  the  companion.  Bainbridge  felt,  indeed,  as  if,  in 
some  odd  way,  they  formed  a  trio,  Clorinda,  Mary,  and 
Malcolm  Grant,  while  he  was  a  spectator  and  apart. 

During  the  ten  days  before  Lent  he  was  struck  with 
this — not  suspiciously  or  anxiously,  or  at  least  not  more 
suspiciously  or  anxiously  than  before.  He  was  only 
curious  as  to  what  it  portended,  or  as  to  whether  or  not  it 
portended  anything.  It  was  only  on  the  evening  before 
the  day  set  for  his  marriage  that  he  learned  that  it  por- 
tended nothing  at  all — as  far  as  Mary  Galloway  was 
concerned. 

"I  can't  help  it  if  he  tells  me  things,"  she  replied  to  one 
of  Bainbridge' s  questions — questions  which  he  knew  to  be 
indiscreet. 

They  were  in  the  rectory  drawing-room,  where  Doctor 
and  Mrs.  Galloway  had  left  them  alone,  not  from  intention, 
but  because  they  had  been  summoned  to  the  telephone. 

298 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

As  far  as  Bainbridge  had  observed,  neither  of  Mary's 
parents  had  ever  planned  anything  between  him  and  her, 
or  had  betrayed  by  so  much  as  a  sigh  a  perception  that 
their  daughter  was  suffering.  They  had  asked  him  to 
their  Sunday-night  supper  as  a  sign  of  informal  farewell, 
and  had  asked  Clorinda  with  him.  Clorinda  had  declined 
on  the  ground  that,  the  ceremony  being  fixed  for  eight  the 
next  morning,  she  needed  the  time  for  preparation  and 
rest ;  but  Bainbridge  had  been  secretly  glad  of  this  friendly 
refuge  for  his  last  unmarried  evening,  especially  with  his 
accumulated  burden  of  thought.  In  other  circumstances 
the  house  in  Sixty-ninth  Street  would  have  been  his 
natural  resort,  but  he  had  been  unable  as  yet  to  overcome 
a  sense  of  discomfort  in  going  there.  Nevertheless,  Maggie 
and  Leslie  were  to  be  at  the  service  on  the  following  morn- 
ing, as  neither  Leslie  nor  Clorinda  could  afford  to  have  it 
otherwise. 

"If  he  tells  you  things,"  Bainbridge  felt  himself  pro- 
voked to  say,  as  he  and  Mary  sat  in  the  glow  of  the  vellum 
shade  painted  in  fruits  and  flowers,  "it's  probably  in  the 
hope  that  you'll  repeat  them  to  Clorinda." 

"He's  never  said  so." 

"But  what  have  you  thought?" 

"Oh,  I've  thought  that." 

"And  have  you  done  it?" 

"Not  always." 

4  4  But  sometimes. ' ' 

"When  I  saw  no  harm  in  it." 

"And  Clorinda— was  she  glad  or  sorry?" 

"If  there  was  anything  to  make  her  sorry  I  didn't 
tell  it." 

"So  that  he  said  things  that  made  her  glad.    Glad  in 

what  way?" 

299 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"In  whatever  way  the  thing  he  said  might  happen  to 
apply." 

"That  is,  there  were  many  ways." 

"There  were  some  ways." 

"And  some  ways  in  which  he  could  have  made  her  sorry 
if  you'd  told  her  what  he  said.  What  kind  of  ways  would 
they  have  been?" 

She  glanced  up  at  him,  with  the  light  that  used  to  be 
mockery  in  the  sparkle  of  her  eye.  ' '  Suppose  you  ask  her. ' ' 

"I  have  asked  her.  She  hasn't  any  secrets  from  me — 
now — "  he  subjoined  the  words,  "I  think."  It  was  her 
odd  expression  that  prompted  him  to  add,  "What  should 
you  say?" 

"What  can  I  say  but  what  you  say  yourself?  How 
should  I  know?" 

He  laughed.  "Oh,  you'd  know,  all  right."  He  went  on, 
with  emphasis,  "You  do  know,  don't  you?" 

"If  I  knew  anything  Clorinda  hasn't  told  you,  do  you 
think  I  ought  to  betray  it?" 

"I  think  you  might  judge.  Considering  your  position 
of — of  friendship  toward  all  of  us — " 

She  surprised  him  by  getting  up  in  the  middle  of  his 
sentence  and  moving  to  a  seat  in  the  obscurity,  farther 
off.    "You're  going  to  be  married  to-morrow  morning — 
she  began. 

"He's  gone  to  see  her  this  evening,"  Bainbridge  inter- 
rupted, abruptly.  "She  gave  him  leave  to  come.  That's 
one  reason  why  she  couldn't  be  here.  You  knew  that, 
didn't  you?" 

"Yes;  I  knew  it  both  from  him  and  from  her.  He's 
gone  to  give  her  a  wedding-present.  She  could  hardly 
refuse  to  receive  him  when  that  was  his  excuse." 

"What's  he  giving  her?" 

300 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"He  wanted  to  give  her  a  ring,  but  she  wouldn't  take 
it" — Bainbridge  put  his  hand  to  his  breast,  where  he 
could  feel  a  half-hoop  of  diamonds,  suspended  by  a  ribbon, 
cutting  into  his  flesh — "so  he's  made  it  a  bracelet." 

"And  she's  going  to  take  that?" 

"She  couldn't  help  herself  without  being  rude." 

For  a  minute  he  made  no  response,  staring  meditatively 
at  the  floor.  When  he  looked  up  it  was  to  say,  brusquely, 
"Did  you  know  her  when  he  was  about  here,  two  or  three 
years  ago?" 

"Oh  yes.    Not  as  well  as  I  do  now,  but — " 

"And  what  did  you  think?" 

She  tried  to  take  this  indifferently.  "Oh,  just  what 
everybody  else  thought.  People  have  experiences  like 
that,  but  they  pass — " 

"Did  this  pass?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"What  I'm  asking  you.  She  was  in  love  with  him  then. 
Isn't  she  still  in  love  with  him?" 

Again  she  got  up,  moving  to  another  spot  in  the  room. 
From  the  angle  between  the  wall  and  the  projecting 
chimneypiece,  with  her  hand  resting  lightly  on  the 
mantel,  she  said:  "I  wish  you  wouldn't  ask  me  things 
like  that — when  you're  going  to  be  married  to-morrow 
morning." 

"Oh,  but  I'm  not  going  to  be  married  for  love;  that 
is,"  he  subjoined,  "not  on  her  side— not  what  /  call 
love." 

"But  if  she  calls  it  love — " 

"She  doesn't— except  with  qualifications  that  do  away 
with  the  meaning  of  the  word.  She's  marrying  me— out 
of  respect." 

"But  if  it's  a  respect  so  deep— 
301 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

He  laughed  again.  "Oh  yes,  very  deep;  and  yet  not 
so  deep  but  what — but  what  it  has  a  bottom."  Springing 
to  his  feet,  he  followed  her  to  her  refuge  in  the  angle  of  the 
chimneypiece,  where  there  was  no  light  to  fall  on  her  face. 
He  hardly  knew  what  urged  him  on.  The  idea  he  wanted 
to  express  had  never  come  actively  into  his  mind  before. 
It  had  been  there  latently,  but  not  in  a  way  that  had  ever 
permitted  him  to  suspect  it.  "Mary,  tell  me."  At  the 
sound  of  her  name  on  his  lips,  a  sound  she  had  never 
before  heard,  she  shrank  farther  back.  "Tell  me,  Mary. 
What's  the  matter  with  her  respect  for  me?  It's  splendid 
— and  yet — and  yet  she  has  reserves  even  there." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  declared,  help- 
lessly. 

"She  must  have  talked  to  you  about  me.  Women 
always  talk  to  some  other  woman.  You  probably  know 
more  of  us  than  we  know  of  ourselves.  She's  told  you 
what  it  is  about  me — what  it  is  I  haven't  got — that  keeps 
her  from  really  caring  anything  about  me.  Oh,  Mary," 
he  pleaded,  "it  means  a  lot  to  me.  We're  going  to  be 
married  to-morrow  morning,  and  if  I'm  ever  to — 

He  could  see  her  lips  moving,  faintly.  When  he  thought 
it  over  afterward  he  could  do  justice  to  the  struggle  she 
was  going  through.  He  was  sure  she  would  rather  have 
torn  out  her  tongue  than  interfere  between  Clorinda  and 
himself,  that  nothing  but  the  fact  that  he  had  adjured  her 
by  her  position  of  friendship  toward  them  all  had  in- 
fluenced her  to  speak.  Even  so  it  was  with  a  kind  of 
terrified  panting  that  she  got  the  words  out. 

"She  never  said  anything  to  me — but  once." 

He  knew  he  was  getting  near  the  heart  of  the  secret  he 
wanted  to  fathom.  "And  then  it  was — ?  Go  on." 

"She  said — she  said  she'd  told  you  something — she 

302 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

didn't  say  what  it  was— and  I've  no  idea— but  she  told 
you— and  you'd  taken  it— I  forget  the  exact  word  she 
used — but  I  think  it  was— too  leniently." 

"Too  leniently?"  he  cried.    "She  said  that?" 

"Oh,  but  not  the  way  I'm  putting  it.  She  meant— I 
know  what  she  meant,"  she  straggled  on,  "or  I  think  I 
do;  but  it's  hard  to  put  into  words.  She  said  she'd  told 
the  same  thing  to  another  man — she  didn't  say  who — but 
I  guessed — and  he  almost — he  almost  trampled  her  under 
his  feet." 

"And  she  liked  that  better?"  Something  that  was  indig- 
nation as  much  as  it  was  anguish  compelled  him  to  ask 
the  question  with  a  shout. 

"No;  she  didn't  like  it  better;  she  only  thought — oh, 
why  do  you  make  me  say  it? — she  only  thought  it  was 
the  way  a  man  who  was  going  to  marry  a  woman  would 
feel — naturally — and  the  way  he  would  act — brutally  was 
the  word  she  used  there — I  remember  now — she  said  that 
if  he  didn't  think  and  act  brutally — in  such  circumstances 
— it  was  a  sign  that  he  wasn't  wholly  a  man — or  something 
like  that — but  that  he  was  too  much — too  much  like 
God—" 

He  laughed  aloud  with  an  irreverence  that  shocked 
himself.    "And  she  didn't  want  to  marry  God — of  course 
not!" 
p    "Oh,  don't  misunderstand  her—" 

"I  don't  misunderstand  her.    I  know  exactly  what— 

But  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Galloway  having  appeared  on  the 
threshold,  he  was  obliged  to  break  off.  When  after  a  vain 
endeavor  to  recapture  the  tone  of  ordinary  conversation, 
he  stammered  his  good-nights,  the  rector  accompanied  him 
to  the  door.  There  was  no  serious  leave-taking,  nor  any 
reference  to  the  event  of  the  next  day  beyond  the  assur- 

303 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

ance  that  Bainbridge  could  feel  quite  easy  in  his  mind  as 
to  taking  his  fortnight's  leave. 

But  as  he  walked  homeward  the  young  man  recalled 
the  words  he  had  read  in  a  translation  of  a  Russian  play: 

"A  woman  likes  admiration,  but  she  gives  herself  only 
to  the  man  who  despises  her  a  little." 

Malcolm  Grant  had  despised  Clorinda — despised  her 
yet,  perhaps — and  he  had  not ! 

Or  had  he?  Did  he  despise  her  as  he  despised  Leslie? 
In  his  heart  of  hearts  was  he  really  treating  her  brutally  ? 
• — or  was  he  too  much  like  God? 

All  his  life  he  had  thought  it  his  duty  to  be  as  much  like 
God  as  possible;  but  was  it  the  way  to  win  an  earthly  and 
intensely  human  woman's  love? 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THOUGH  the  ceremony  was  not  to  take  place  till 
eight,  Bainbridge  was  at  the  church  before  seven, 
letting  himself  in  by  the  vestry  door,  turning  on  a  discreet 
light  or  two,  and  unlocking  the  main  entrance.  He  did 
this  himself,  since  it  had  been  considered  prudent  not 
to  give  away  the  secret  by  sharing  it  with  the  sexton. 
Caution  had  become  the  more  necessary  for  the  reason 
that  on  the  preceding  Saturday  the  periodical  to  which 
Miss  Higgins  remained  a  contributor  foretold  the  ap- 
proaching nuptials  with  a  startling  degree  of  exactitude. 
In  the  kindly,  almost  caressing,  notice  of  Mrs.  Gilder- 
sleeve  and  himself  Bainbridge  read  the  signs  of  Miss 
Higgins's  gratitude,  as  well  as  of  her  new  tone  toward  her 
public.  In  the  matter  of  the  ceremony  he  admired  her 
faculty  for  putting  two  and  two  together  even  though  it 
threatened  some  inconvenience  to  himself. 

Having  finished  his  tasks,  he  went  into  a  pew  and  knelt 
down.  He  did  this  from  habit  rather  than  from  a  spirit 
of  devotion,  for  no  more  than  on  the  day  when  he  had 
brought  here  the  knowledge  that  Leslie  was  the  man  did  he 
pray.  That  is,  he  formed  no  sentences,  he  used  no  words ; 
it  was  a  question  as  to  whether  or  not  he  had  clearly  de- 
fined thoughts.  Where  everything  was  so  complicated 
clearly  defined  thoughts  were  difficult.  All  he  could  do 
in  the  matter  of  prayer  was  to  know  himself  in  the  hand  of 

305 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

God,  and  to  be  patient  till  the  lifting  of  the  veil.  That 
was  still  down,  hung  closely  in  front  of  him,  shutting  in  his 
vision,  shutting  out  the  prospect,  forbidding  him  to  see 
an  inch  beyond  that  minute  and  that  spot. 

Once  he  found  himself  muttering  in  actual  words, 
"I've  tried  to  do  right — taking  each  thing  as  it  came — 
doing  my  best  to  see  what  it  meant — and  to  follow  where 
it  led — and  therefore  nothing  but  the  right  can  come  of 
it." 

In  this  conviction  he  knelt  and  waited,  while  the  wan 
daylight  stole  into  the  cavernous  arches  above  his  head, 
waking  them  into  grayness.  Except  for  the  one  or  two 
lights  he  had  turned  on  near  the  vestry  door  the  chancel 
and  nave  remained  dark. 

By  and  by  a  spot  like  a  ruby  appeared  in  the  great 
window  over  the  altar.  Later  there  was  another  spot 
like  an  amethyst,  and  another  like  a  sapphire,  and  another 
like  an  emerald,  and  another  like  a  topaz,  and  another 
like  a  rivulet  of  running  liquid  gold.  They  formed  nc 
picture;  they  were  scattered,  irrelevant;  they  had  no 
rich,  palpitating  lights;  they  merely  glowed  with  the 
luminous  dullness  of  ancient  precious  things  that  have 
long  lain  rayless  in  the  dark. 

He  was  still  gazing  absently  when  he  saw  the  ruby 
deepen  and  quiver  and  spread  and  become  a  robe  over  the 
figure  of  a  reclining  man;  the  running  liquid  gold  was  a 
kneeling  woman's  hair;  the  amethyst  came  from  the 
purple  shades  in  an  alabaster  box;  the  topaz  was  the 
pavement  on  which  it  stood,  the  emerald  a  palm-tree 
seen  through  a  rounded  arch,  and  the  sapphire  the  sky. 
It  all  came  softly,  pulsatingly,  like  a  sunrise;  only,  unlike 
a  sunrise,  it  remained. 

It  remained  and  seemed  to  live;  it  seemed  to  live  and 

306 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

bring  a  message.  Was  it  for  this  that,  fifty  years  before, 
the  church  had  been  dedicated  to  St.  Mary  Magdalen, 
no  one  quite  knowing  the  reason  why?  Had  there  been  a 
wisdom  which  foresaw  that  a  woman  not  then  born— a 
curious,  complex  twentieth-century  woman,  mysterious, 
self  -  contradictory,  penitent  and  impenitent  at  once, 
seemingly  whole-hearted  and  yet  with  strange,  unexpected 
reserves — would  bring  her  sins  where  Mary  Magdalen 
brought  hers?  Had  he  himself,  kneeling  in  the  gray  light 
of  a  February  morning,  been  visible  to  that  foreknowledge? 
and  had  it  been  preordained  that  through  color  and  light 
and  the  work  of  some  unnamed  artificer  in  beauty  he 
should  be  reminded  again  that,  whatever  the  majority 
of  men  might  do,  he  couldn't  treat  a  woman  otherwise 
than  as  his  Master? 

He  put  these  questions  with  some  intensity,  for  the 
reason  that  of  all  he  had  had  to  learn  nothing  had  been 
quite  so  bitter  as  that  Clorinda  contemned  a  little,  if 
only  a  little,  the  pardon  that  gave  her  happiness.  Mal- 
colm Grant  had  treated  her  brutally,  had  outraged  her 
pride  and  spurned  her  womanhood — and  yet  it  was  to 
him  she  turned  as  to  a  man!  She  was  marrying  to  be 
revenged  on  him;  and  her  eagerness  to  be  revenged  on 
him  was  inspired  by  a  score  of  obscure  feminine  impulses 
which  paid  no  heed  to  the  argument  that  they  defeated 
their  own  ends.  In  that  sense  he,  Arthur  Bainbridge, 
was  but  the  instrument  to  her  hand,  even  if,  in  another 
sense,  he  was  the  saint  at  whose  feet  she  was  ready  to 
prostrate  herself.  It  came  to  him  for  the  first  time, 
it  came  to  him  rather  sickeningly,  that  Clorinda,  with  all 
her  dignity  and  sweetness  and  outward  charm,  was  one 
of  those  ardent,  ill-regulated  woman-souls  whose  prompt- 
ing is  always  to  throw  themselves  at  some  man's  feet, 

3°7 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

either  to  be  raised  up  or  trampled  on — and  perhaps 
trampled  on  for  preference. 

But  the  light  quivered  and  beat  and  stole  on  the  senses 
impreceptibly,  and  all  through  the  church  objects  began 
to  stand  out  in  it  and  gleaming  things  to  give  back  its 
rays.  Now  it  was  the  polished  wrought  iron  of  the 
pulpit  steps;  now  it  was  the  symbolic  brazen  eagle  that 
bore  up  the  Bible;  now  it  was  the  candlesticks  on  the  altar; 
lastly  it  was  the  cross.  As  sunrise  drew  near  the  cross 
glowed  more  and  more  brightly.  To  Bainbridge's  eyes, 
as  he  gazed  with  an  almost  hypnotic  gazing,  it  seemed 
to  become  a  living,  blazing  thing,  like  the  light  of  the 
world. 

His  musings,  in  as  far  as  they  were  conscious,  were  dis- 
turbed at  last  by  the  opening  of  the  door  leading  from 
the  porch.  This  was  followed  by  a  whispering.  Guessing 
that  Leslie  and  Maggie  had  arrived,  he  rose  from  his  knees 
and  went  to  the  back  of  the  church  to  greet  them.  The  act 
dispelled  whatever  was  exalted  in  his  frame  of  mind  and 
brought  him  down  to  the  level  of  common  realities. 
There  was  no  light  or  color  or  mystical  meaning  here, 
nor  even  ordinary  comfort. 

It  was  Maggie  who  remarked  that  the  church  was  cold, 
and  less  like  a  wedding  than  any  spot  she  had  ever  seen 
in  her  life.  "We  really  should  have  done  something  to 
keep  it  from  being  so  dismal.  It  would  be  terrible  if 
Clorinda,  who  has  never  liked  churches,  anyhow,  should 
take  a  worse  turn  against  them  now.  And  by  the  way, 
who's  coming  with  her?  I've  thought  it  strange  that  she 
shouldn't  ask  Leslie  to  give  her  away." 

Leslie  moved  off  to  read  the  inscription  on  a  tablet 
near  the  door  while  Bainbridge  explained  that  it  was 
Clorinda's  express  desire  to  come  to  the  church  alone. 

308 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

They  had  arranged  with  Doctor  Galloway  that  the 
detail  in  the  service  in  which  the  bride  is  passed  from  hand 
to  hand  should  be  omitted.  A  woman  who,  like  Clorinda, 
was  independent  in  every  sense  of  the  word  didn't  need 
to  be  "given  away"  by  any  one.  Maggie  shook  her  head 
over  this  deviation  from  custom. 

"I  must  say  I  never  heard  of  a  bride  coming  to  the 
church  all  by  herself.  It  doesn't  seem  to  me  quite  decent. 
I've  been  wondering  for  the  last  week  why  she  didn't  ask 
Leslie,  who  seems  to  me  the  most  proper  person — but 
if  she  didn't  want  him,  why  there  was  old  Doctor  Rintoul." 
Maggie  looked  up  toward  the  altar,  where  the  cross  was 
the  more  luminous  against  the  pre-Lenten  violet  hang- 
ings. "Not  a  flower,"  she  complained,  "not  a  leaf! 
Well,  I  never!  I  wonder  you  don't  have  some  one  to 
play  the  'Dead  March'  in  'Saul.'" 

Bainbridge  smiled  faintly.  He  was  curiously  numb 
now,  and  indifferent.  He  could  hardly  believe  that  the 
supreme  hour  was  at  hand.  Clorinda  herself  and  all 
the  questions  she  raised  seemed  to  fade  away.  The  odd 
thing  was  that  he  should  be  there  at  all  in  that  extraor- 
dinary manner — that  Maggie  and  Leslie,  slightly  ill- 
tempered  at  having  to  be  out  so  early,  should  be  keeping 
him  company — and  that  he  hadn't  had  his  breakfast. 

Such  thoughts  as  these  were  in  his  mind  when  he  heard 
a  movement  in  the  vestry,  and  knew  that  Doctor  Galloway 
had  also  come.  The  huge  old  man  looked  huger  than  ever 
in  his  surplice  when  Bainbridge  entered  the  robing-room. 
Their  greetings  were  brief,  their  intercourse  prosaic. 
As  they  went  over  again  certain  details  of  the  Lenten 
services,  of  certain  meetings  at  which  Bainbridge's  place 
would  have  to  be  supplied  while  he  was  away,  there  was 
the  same  unromantic  feeling  that  had  pervaded  the  short 

3°9 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

conversation  with  Maggie.     The  earliness  of  the  hour,  the 
dreariness,  the  cold  had  affected  the  spirits  of  them  all. 

On  returning  to  the  church  Bainbridge  found  Leslie 
and  Maggie  seated  side  by  side  in  a  pew  near  the  top. 
Half-way  down  on  the  other  side  Mary  Galloway  was  on 
her  knees,  her  head  bowed  upon  her  hands.  He  himself 
took  his  place  at  the  foot  of  the  chancel  steps,  waiting  for 
Clorinda. 

It  was  what  Clorinda  had  wished.  She  preferred  to  do 
everything  alone.  Any  one  with  her,  she  said,  would  give 
her  more  trouble  than  companionship.  She  wanted  to 
be  free  to  think  of  nothing  but  the  thing  she  had  to  do. 

On  the  stroke  of  eight  she  appeared,  opening  and  closing 
the  door  for  herself,  and  standing  for  a  second  or  two  look- 
ing up  the  long,  empty  church.  Dressed  as  if  for  the 
street  in  some  rich  shade  of  heilotrope,  the  only  unusual 
note  in  her  costume  was  that  her  hands  were  bare.  After 
the  first  brief  instant  of  inspection  she  began  to  walk 
slowly  up  the  aisle. 

It  was  the  slowness  that  drew  Bainbridge's  attention  as 
he  looked  and  waited.  It  was  not  a  ceremonial  slowness, 
not  the  measured  dignity  of  one  taking  part  in  a  high 
solemnity.  He  knew  that  her  natural  manner  would 
have  been  to  come  to  him  swiftly,  with  the  urging  forward 
of  her  impetuous  character.  That  she  took  each  step 
with  hesitation  meant  either  reluctance  or  pain. 

But  she  shook  her  head  when  he  made  a  movement  as 
if  to  go  down  the  aisle  to  her  assistance.  For  him  to  do 
so  would  have  been  a  breach  of  the  ritual  it  had  been 
her  will  to  decree.  "I  want  to  come  to  you  of  my  own 
accord — to  do  it  all  myself,"  she  had  insisted  more  than 
once;  and  there  had  been  nothing  for  it  but  to  let  her  have 
her  way. 

310 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

Nevertheless,  even  as  she  shook  her  head  she  paused  for 
a  second,  with  her  hand  on  the  door  of  the  nearest  pew. 
She  was  resting,  or  getting  her  breath.  In  the  circum- 
stances it  was  doubtless  natural  that  she  should  be  some- 
what overcome.  Luckily,  neither  Mary  Galloway  nor 
the  Pallisers  had  heard  her  approach  or  looked  behind, 
so  that  as  yet  the  only  spectators  were  the  rector  and 
himself. 

But  as  Clorinda  came  forward  again  and  rested  again, 
now  leaning  on  the  door  of  a  pew  somewhat  heavily, 
Maggie  glanced  backward,  springing  to  her  feet  and  giving 
her  husband  a  push.  "For  mercy's  sake,  Leslie,"  she 
cried,  in  a  loud  whisper,  "do  go  and  give  her  your  arm. 
Can't  you  see  she's  not  well?" 

It  was  the  circumstance  that  three  of  those  present 
were  most  eager  to  avoid.  Leslie's  great  eyes  gazed 
toward  Clorinda,  with  the  words,  "Must  I?  Dare  I?" 
written  in  their  glance.  But  neither  Bainbridge  nor 
Clorinda  waited  for  him  to  move.  The  one  hastened 
down  the  aisle,  and  the  other  upward,  so  that  she  reached 
the  chancel  steps  breathless  and  perturbed. 

Instantly  the  rector's  voice  began  to  recite,  somewhat 
asthmatically,  "Dearly  beloved,  we  are  gathered  together 
here  in  the  sight  of  God  and  in  the  face  of  this  company 
to  join  together  this  man  and  this  woman  in  holy  matri- 
mony; which  is  an  honorable  estate,  instituted  of  God 
in  the  time  of  man's  innocency,  signifying  unto  us  the 
mystical  union  that  is  betwixt  Christ  and  His  Church." 

Bainbridge  felt  her  hand  clutch  his  arm  with  a  positive 
need  of  support.  He  had  never  known  any  one  to  tremble 
so  violently  and  yet  remain  standing.  He  was  swept  by 
an  immense  pity  for  her.  More  than  at  any  previous 
minute  he  was  sure  she  was  doing  this  thing  wilfully, 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

against  her  better  judgment,  though  with  the  conviction 
that  it  was  the  highest  road  to  take.  It  was  too  late  to 
dissuade  her  now.  It  would  have  been  impossible  to 
dissuade  her  at  any  time,  even  if  he  had  been  so  inclined, 
and  whether  he  had  been  so  inclined  or  no  he  found  it 
impossible  to  tell.  All  he  could  do  at  the  instant  was  to 
recall  the  words  he  had  once  spoken  to  Malcolm  Grant, 
and  which  straggled  back  to  him  now  through  unfre- 
quented byways  of  the  memory:  "A  man's  love  can  do 
anything  for  a  woman — if  it's  big  enough  and  true  enough 
and  strong  enough."  There  and  then  he  registered  a 
great  and  sacred  vow  to  make  his  love  of  that  sort,  so 
that,  come  what  might,  the  woman  trembling  on  his  arm 
should  find  herself  blessed.  The  doctor  continued  to 
wheeze  on. 

"Into  this  holy  estate  these  two  persons  present  come 
now  to  be  joined.  If  any  man  can  show  just  cause  why 
they  may  not  lawfully  be  joined  together  let  him  now 
speak,  or  else  hereafter  forever  hold  his  peace." 

The  pause  was  solemn,  it  was  almost  menacing.  It  was 
as  if  the  celebrant  expected  some  dramatic  inter- 
vention. Bainbridge  was  so  moved  by  it  that  involun- 
tarily he  glanced  at  Clorinda,  who  stood  with  head  bowed 
like  a  lily  on  its  stalk,  and  then  round  toward  the  three 
witnesses.  Of  these  Maggie  alone  maintained  the  con- 
ventional manner  of  the  interested  spectator.  Leslie 
stood  with  eyes  raised  and  looking  far  away,  as  if  he 
was  studying  the  Magdalen  in  stained  glass.  Mary 
Galloway  was  still  on  her  knees,  her  face  buried  in  her 
hands 

The  voice  resumed,  in  a  lower  and  more  intimate  key: 

"I  require  and  charge  you  both,  as  ye  shall  answer  at 
the  dreadful  day  of  judgment,  when  the  secrets  of  all 

312 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

hearts  shall  be  disclosed,  that  if  either  of  you  know  any 
impediment,  why  ye  may  not  lawfully  be  joined  together 
in  matrimony  ye  do  now  confess  it." 

Again  Bainbridge  glanced  with  that  curious  half- 
expectation  at  the  woman  who  had  come  there  to  be  his 
wife.  It  was  giving  her  another  chance.  If  she  refused 
to  take  it  the  responsibility  would  be  hers.  He  himself 
would  then  be  free  to  seize  the  cup  of  his  joy  with  both 
hands — even  though  the  mixture  within  held  so  large 
an  infusion  of  wormwood. 

Again  there  was  a  pause;  but  again  Clorinda  made  no 
movement.  Though  she  still  trembled,  she  allowed  him 
to  detach  her  hand  from  his  arm  and  clasp  it  within  his 
own.  Facing  her  directly,  as  they  now  stood,  he  could 
see  that  she  was  white  with  the  bloodlessness  of  death, 
and  that  her  pale  lips  quivered  like  a  child's.  Never- 
theless, she  maintained  a  certain  measure  of  composure 
as  the  rector  put  his  queston: 

"Arthur,  wilt  thou  have  this  woman  to  thy  wedded 
wife,  to  live  together  after  God's  ordinance  in  the  holy 
estate  of  matrimony?  Wilt  thou  love  her,  comfort  her, 
honor  and  keep  her  in  sickness  and  in  health;  and  for- 
saking all  others  keep  thee  only  unto  her,  so  long  as  ye 
both  shall  live?" 

Bainbridge,  who  had  weighed  each  word,  felt  that  the 
circumstances  required  from  him  an  exceptional  warmth 
of  affirmation.  His  "I  will"  rang  through  the  hollow 
recesses  of  the  church. 

"Clorinda,  wilt  thou  have  this  man  to  thy  wedded 
husband,  to  live  together  after  God's  ordinance  in  the 
holy  estate  of — ?" 

"Wait." 

The  word  was  whispered  so  faintly  that  the  old  rector 

21  3*3 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

didn't  hear  it.  He  had  already  begun  on  the  word 
"matrimony"  when  Bainbridge  himself  said,  hurriedly: 

"Wait.  Something's  the  matter.  She's — she's  not 
well." 

Clorinda  was  now  leaning  on  him,  as  if  about  to  faint. 
"No,  I'm  not  well,"  she  whispered.  "I  must — I  must  sit 
down." 

Her  swaying  was  such  that  Maggie,  with  a  smothered 
exclamation,  sprang  forward,  catching  her  as  she  reeled. 
Between  them  they  led  her  the  few  steps  to  the  nearest 
pew,  where  she  sat  down. 

"I  shall  be  all  right  in  a  minute,"  she  managed  to  say, 
with  a  smile  of  apology  which  scarcely  reached  her  lips. 
"Then  we  can  go  on." 

"Leslie,  run  into  the  vestry  and  get  a  glass  of  water," 
Maggie  commanded. 

Leslie  ran,  and  during  the  minutes  of  his  absence 
Clorinda,  supported  by  Maggie,  endeavored  to  smile, 
without  succeeding.  The  rector  had  descended  the 
steps  and,  prayer-book  in  hand,  stood  looking  down  on 
the  sufferer  sympathetically.  Mary  Galloway  had  left 
her  pew,  but  made  no  attempt  to  come  up  the  aisle.  For 
once  when  there  was  need  of  her  she  held  herself  aloof. 

"It's  the  hour,"  Maggie  declared.  "I  said  from  the 
first  that  it  was  too  ridiculously  early." 

Clorinda  murmured,  faintly:  "I  shall  be  better  soon. 
Then  we  can  go  on  again." 

But  when  Leslie  returned  with  the  water  and  she  had 
taken  a  few  sips  she  was  still  unable  to  stand.  Having 
made  the  effort,  she  relapsed  again,  seeming  for  a  second 
or  two  about  to  lose  consciousness.  The  efforts  were 
repeated,  with  the  same  result.  Tears  came  into  her 
eyes  as  her  head  sank  on  Maggie's  shoulder.  "I'm  very 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

silly,"  she  whispered  again;  "but  it's  what  I  ought  to 
have  expected." 

It  was  Bainbridge's  impulse  to  ask  why.  Though  he 
refrained  from  doing  so,  her  words  remained  in  his  memo- 
ry. She  allowed  him  to  sit  beside  her  and  take  her  limp, 
cold  hand  in  his,  but  her  only  recognition  of  him  was  in 
the  occasional  look  of  unspeakable  tenderness,  which  tried 
to  make  itself  a  smile,  she  occasionally  turned  toward  him. 

It  was  Maggie  who  said  at  last,  with  decision:  "It's 
got  to  be  put  off.  Here  it  is  nearly  nine  o'clock  and 
she's  not  able  to  stand  up  yet.  I  said  from  the  first  that 
eight  was  absurd.  Doctor  Galloway  can  come  up  to  the 
house  later  in  the  day  and  have  the  service  there." 

But  later  in  the  day  there  was  no  opportunity.  Clo- 
rinda  was  confined  to  her  room  and  her  bed,  and  could 
see  no  one  but  Maggie,  who  had  installed  herself  as  nurse. 
When  old  Doctor  Rintoul  was  summoned  he  said  she  was 
suffering  from'  shock  following  on  prolonged  nervous 
strain.  On  Bainbridge's  explaining  that  though  she 
might  have  been  under  a  nervous  strain,  there  had  been 
nothing  in  the  nature  of  a  shock,  he  shook  his  shaggy 
gray  head  and  thrust  out  his  big  under  lip,  saying  that 
in  that  case  her  condition  couldn't  be  accounted  for. 

So  Shrove  Tuesday  passed,  and  Ash  Wednesday  passed, 
and  Lent  began,  and  Bainbridge  didn't  go  away.  There 
was  nothing  to  go  away  for.  Instead,  he  went  quietly 
about  his  work,  wondering  and  praying,  and  waiting  for 
the  day  when  he  should  be  able  to  see  Clorinda.  Till 
he  could  do  so  all  was  of  necessity  obscure  to  him.  The 
veil  was  not  only  dense  before  him;  it  was  entangling 
and  confusing  about  his  feet.  He  could  attend  to  nothing 
but  his  obvious  duties,  scarcely  daring  so  much  as  to 
think. 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

When  Maggie  had  departed  to  her  own  house,  and 
nurses  took  her  place,  it  began  to  be  evident  that  Clorinda 
was  not  merely  indisposed,  but  ill. 

"7  can't  make  her  out,"  Maggie  complained  to  him. 
"I've  done  everything  I  can  and  was  willing  to  do  more; 
but  she  doesn't  seem  to  want  me.  She's  as  good  as  said 
that  she'd  rather  have  Mary  Galloway;  and  so  Mary 
Galloway  she  has.  Well,  every  one  to  their  taste!  I'm 
the  last  person  to  force  myself  where  I'm  not  wanted.  I 
thought  she  seemed  strange  the  day  I  suggested  that 
Leslie  should  go  with  her  to  the  church  and  give  her  away. 
The  Lord  knows  I  didn't  care — except  for  the  look  of 
things  The  idea  of  her  coming  all  by  herself  like  that! 
No  wonder  she's  broken  down — and  all  the  rest  of  it." 

It  was  only  from  Mary  Galloway,  therefore,  that 
Bainbridge  got  any  news — and  she  gave  him  very  little. 
As  far  as  he  could  observe,  she  seemed  to  have  relapsed 
into  that  methodical  keeping  out  of  his  sight  which  he 
had  noticed  in  her  during  previous  years.  He  knew 
she  flitted  from  the  rectory  to  the  church  and  from  the 
church  to  Clorinda's,  shadowy  and  spirit-like,  but  he 
rarely  got  a  glimpse  of  her.  When  he  did,  her  answers 
to  his  questions  had  little  variety. 

"She's  about  the  same.  No,  she  hasn't  been  up 
yet.  Doctor  Rintoul  says  he  doesn't  know  when  she'll 
be  able  to  see  any  one  but  the  nurses  and  me.  No,  she 
can't  talk  much — very  little.  She  asks  after  you,  but 
only  in  a  general  way,  as  to  how  you  are  and  what  you 
are  doing  and  that  sort  of  thing.  But  then  for  hour 
after  hour  she  just  lies  there  and  doesn't  say  anything  at 
all." 

"Does  she  ever  speak  of  Malcolm  Grant?" 

J'Never." 

316 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

On  one  occasion  he  asked  the  question,  "What's 
really  the  matter  with  her — really?" 

She  began  to  move  away  from  him.  "Doctor  Rintoul 
insists  that  she's  had  a  shock." 

"But  what  shock  can  she  have  had?" 

She  shook  her  head  and  said  nothing. 

"Malcolm  Grant  was  with  her  the  evening  before — " 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  that,"  she  said,  hur- 
riedly, adding  over  her  shoulder  as  she  left  him,  "She's 
never  said  anything  about  it — and  I  haven't  an  idea." 

But  Bainbridge  brooded  over  the  suspicion  as  he  won- 
dered and  prayed  and  worked.  He  looked  haggard  and 
much  older.  The  question  as  to  his  own  position  began 
to  trouble  him.  Was  he  still  engaged  to  her?  Might 
he  be  said  to  be  married  to  her?  There  was  of  course  no 
legal  marriage,  but  he  had  actually  pronounced  his  "I 
will"  before  witnesses.  Since  she  had  gone  so  far,  was 
she  bound  in  honor — was  he  bound  in  honor — to  go  on 
with  the  ceremony  as  soon  as  circumstances  would  allow? 
Or  had  all  his  romance  faded  into  unreality  and  insub- 
stantiality  with  Clorinda's  withdrawal  into  a  vague 
unseen? 

It  was  with  some  thought  of  this  heartbreaking  pos- 
sibility that  he  said  one  day  to  Doctor  Galloway,  "If 
it  seemed  advisable,  could  I  have  leave  of  absence 
to  go  over  to  France  for  a  few  months  to  see  what  I 
could  do?" 

The  rector  hung  up  his  surplice  in  the  closet  appro- 
priated to  his  vestments,  saying  as  he  did  so,  "Do — in 
what  capacity?" 

Bainbridge,  who  was  in  his  street  clothes,  stood  by  the 
huge  table  laden  with  books  and  registers  that  held  the 
center  of  the  vestry.  "I  was  thinking  of  work  as  am- 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

bulance-driver  or  stretcher-bearer;  but  I  should  be  will- 
ing to  do  anything  for  which  they'd  take  me  on." 

The  rector  turned  in  his  shirt-sleeves  with  his  coat 
in  his  hand.  "You  can  have  any  leave  of  absence 
you  like  provided — provided  you  don't  take  it  in  a 
hurry." 

"I  shouldn't  take  it  in  a  hurry  in  any  case;  but  why 
the  proviso?" 

The  old  man  swung  on  his  coat  with  a  slow  roll  of  his 
great  bulk.  "Because  life  works  out,  and  we've  got  to 
give  it  time.  We  can't  work  it  out.  It's  the  error  of  the 
young  and  the  eager  to  think  that  we  can — that  we're 
obliged  to  take  the  bull  by  the  horns  and  intervene. 
Mistake,  Bainbridge.  All  things  work  together  for  good 
to  those  who  will  let  them.  If  it  should  prove  to  be  a 
wise  thing  for  you  to  go  over  to  France  it  will  become 
obvious."  There  was  a  tender  note  in  the  asthmatic  old 
voice  as  he  added,  "Don't  attempt  it  till  it  does." 

Bainbridge  reflected  on  this  advice.  "What  do  we 
mean  by  all  things  working  together  for  good?"  he  asked 
at  last.  "Is  it  working  together  for  happiness?" 

"It  is — in  the  sense  that  the  happy  thing  is  the  high 
thing.  It's  more  than  a  platitude  or  a  bit  of  sententious- 
ness  to  say  that  happiness  isn't  in  conditions;  it's  in  what 
conditions  make  of  us."  A  smile  dawned  over  the 
Buddha-like  features  as  he  went  on  to  say:  "A  happy 
ending  to  a  book,  for  instance,  isn't  the  ending  where 
the  hero  and  heroine  marry  and  have  a  good  time;  it's 
that  in  which  they're  left  aiming  up  instead  of  going 
downward.  The  bliss  of  an  impending  wedding  ceremony 
used  to  be  the  ideal  of  young  girls,  but  even  the  young 
girls  nowadays,  I  think,  have  got  over  that.  To  you 
and  me — to  all  men  and  women — not  to  marry  can  be  as 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

hopeful  a  sign  as  to  many,  when  we  see  in  it  a  fine  soul 
wrestling  with  a  great  experience." 

Bainbridge  wondered  whether  in  this  there  was  a 
reference  to  himself;  but  if  so  it  was  the  nearest  the  old 
man  ever  came  to  it.  Now  and  then  he  asked,  casually, 
"How  is  Mrs.  Gildersleeve?"  but  he  paid  little  or  no 
attention  to  the  answer.  Bainbridge  wondered  if  he 
knew  the  heart-searching  process  his  assistant  was  going 
through,  or  so  much  as  cared. 

Only  once  during  Lent  did  Bainbridge  come  to  actual 
speech  with  Malcolm  Grant,  though  they  continued  to 
see  each  other  at  meetings  where  war  was  the  topic 
and  both  were  frequently  speakers.  While  it  could  not 
be  said  that  they  avoided  each  other,  as  Leslie  and  he 
avoided  each  other,  the  ebb  and  flow  of  an  audience  kept 
them  easily  apart.  Bainbridge  had  not  noticed  that  he 
looked  older  himself,  but  he  did  notice  it  in  the  case  of  his 
rival.  Day  by  day  the  lines  of  his  face  appeared  to  be 
deeper  cut,  while  what  had  been  fleshliness  and  vacancy 
steadily  yielded  to  some  form  of  inner  struggle.  Bain- 
bridge did  him  the  justice  to  think  that  the  conflict  in 
that  quarter  was  not  less  violent  than  in  his  own. 

But  they  met  quite  accidentally  at  the  corner  of  a  street 
leading  from  Fifth  Avenue.  They  were  on  their  way  to  a 
drawing-room  meeting  at  which  Grant  was  to  stir  sym- 
pathy by  reading  some  of  his  letters  from  the  front. 
It  was  in  days  when  the  sharing  of  such  interests  was  still » 
new. 

Since  it  was  necessary  to  walk  the  few  hundred  yards 
together,  they  managed  to  do  so  without  a  too  visible 
embarrassment.  It  was  when  the  first  commonplaces 
had  been  passed  that  Grant  surprised  the  younger  man 
with  the  simple  question,  "How  is  Mrs.  Gildersleeve?" 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

Bainbridge  having  replied  warily  that  though  there  was 
not  much  change  she  was,  if  anything,  a  little  better,  the 
baronet  said,  abruptly: 

"I'm  afraid  you  think  I  had  something  to  do  with 
that."  Before  Bainbridge  could  rally,  the  speaker  went 
on  to  add,  "If  so,  it  was  quite  inadvertently." 

The  natural  inquiry  was,  "Inadvertently — in  what 
way?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  in  what  way.  I  only  know  that  she — 
that  she  fainted." 

Bainbridge  stopped  in  his  walk,  so  that  they  confronted 
each  other.  "Fainted — what  for?" 

"I  tell  you  I  don't  know.  I  thought  at  the  time  it  was 
for  joy.  Does  take  women  that  way  sometimes,  es- 
pecially when  they've  been  under  a  strain." 

Bainbridge  looked  puzzled.      "I  don't  follow  you." 

The  other  tried  to  explain.  "It  was  the  evening  before 
— before  you  were  to  have  been  married.  I  ought  to 
tell  you  now  that  I'd  given  up — everything.  I'd  begun 
to  see  that  you — that  you  were  the  chap." 

"Oh!"    The  ejaculation  was  just  audible. 

"Yes,  old  man.  I'd  watched — and  considered — and 
thought  you  over — and,  hang  it  all!  I'd  made  up  my 
mind  that  you  deserved  her.  I  give  you  my  word  that 
I  only  went  to  see  her  to  offer  her  a  trifle  of  a  present — 
and  tell  her  that." 

"And  she  fainted?" 

He  nodded.  "I  remembered  what  you'd  said  to  me  the 
last  time  we  talked  it  over.  You  said  that  you'd  leave  the 
whole  thing  to  the  principle  of  right  and  wrong — and 
whichever  of  us  was  most  in  the  right  would  get  her. 
Well,  I  thought  I  was  a  sure  winner  on  right  till — till  I 
began  to  see  how  you'd  stood  by  her."  Laying  a  hand  on 

320 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

the  clergyman's  shoulder,  he  looked  down  into  his  eyes 
with  a  smile.     "You've  been  a  corker,  old  chap — " 

"Yes,  but  why  should  she  faint?" 

He  removed  his  hand,  his  face  growing  grave  again. 
"Before  God,  old  man,  I  don't  know.  She  followed  me 
easily  enough  while  I  was  sizing  you  up  and  saying  what 
a  good  un  you'd  been — what? — and  then  all  at  once — 
when  we  were  talking  of  the  afternoon  you  and  she  came  in 
and  found  me  waiting — you  remember! — and  I  was 
saying  how  magnificently  you'd  risen  to  that — when  you'd 
never  known — what? — and  of  course  I  couldn't  help  re- 
ferring to  the  circumstances  of  three  and  four  years  ago 
— but  I  did  it  delicately — the  way  she  likes — well,  all  I 
can  say  is  that  she  just  toppled  over  like  a  rag — like  a 
dead  woman — and  if  I  hadn't  caught  her  she'd  have  tum- 
bled off  the  chair.  Luckily  there  was  a  bell  within  reach, 
and  when  I'd  pressed  it  that  little  Pansy  girl — the  pretty 
one — came  running  in,  and  acted  like  a  brick.  She  knew 
what  to  do — and  brought  her  round — but — but — I  had 
to  make  myself  scarce,  of  course.  Since  then  I  haven't — 

For  lack  of  anything  more  to  say  they  walked  on  again 
in  silence.  Bainbridge  was  again  struggling  with  him- 
self. All  his  nerve  had  been  strained  to  keep  from  shout- 
ing "You  fool!"  in  the  face  of  this  good  fellow  who  had 
thought  he  was  doing  him  a  service.  Something,  he  felt, 
he  must  say — something  that  would  relieve  his  excite- 
ment and  show  this  blunderer  the  harm  he  had  done  unwit- 
tingly. If  the  fact  that  it  was  unwitting  might  be 
pleaded  as  an  excuse,  it  was  also  a  reason  for  plain 
speaking.  He  was  actually  phrasing  a  sentence  that 
would  not  only  be  neat  and  courteous,  but  would  also 
tell  this  great  simpleton  something  he  would  never 
forget — when  he  remembered. 

321 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

He  had  once  been  near  to  speaking  to  Clorinda — he  had 
been  nearer  speaking  to  Leslie — when,  after  all,  silence 
had  been  of  God.  Silence  was  probably  of  God  in  this 
case,  too;  and  so  they  went  onward  to  the  door  without 
breaking  it. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THUS  Malcolm  Grant  never  knew  what  he  had  done, 
nor  did  Bainbridge  ever  refer  to  it.  He  had  one 
secret  the  more  to  keep,  and  that  was  all.  He  made  no 
mention  of  it  even  when  Clorinda  sent  for  him  and  all  the 
veils  were  lifted. 

That  was  a  morning  in  April,  when  he  had  not  seen  her 
for  nearly  two  months.  He  found  her  changed,  emaci- 
ated, with  some  of  her  beauty  gone.  In  her  indefinable 
charm  she  had  gained,  however,  as  well  as  in  that  air  of 
sorrow  and  mystery  that  had  at  all  times  hung  about  her 
like  a  magic  cloak. 

She  was  half  seated,  half  reclining,  in  a  long  chair 
near  the  window  of  an  up-stairs  sitting-room  on  the  third 
floor — a  fairy  garden  of  flowered  chintz.  Bowls  of  daf- 
fodils and  tulips  stood  about,  and  the  sunshine  was  not  so 
hot  as  to  need  tempering. 

She  allowed  him  to  kiss  her  hand,  though  waving  him 
away  with  a  slight  gesture  when  he  attempted  to  repeat 
the  homage  on  her  lips.  By  methods  so  delicate  and  so 
deft  as  to  defy  his  power  of  analysis  she  managed  to 
convey  to  him  the  impression  that  they  met  on  a  new  foot- 
ing. He  noticed  that  she  no  longer  wore  the  ring  he  had 
given  her,  nor  any  but  her  wedding-ring,  though  this  he 
could  attribute  to  the  fact  that  her  finger  had  grown  so 
thin  that  even  the  gold  band  was  loose  on  it. 

The  aerial  effect  of  her  laces  and  tissues  and  gauzes, 
323 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

blending  in  hue  from  white  to  lilac,  and  from  lilac  to  pale 
rose,  made  of  her  something  rare  and  spiritualized,  that 
came  within  his  sphere  only  through  the  exceeding  tender 
cordiality  of  her  greeting.  Nothing  could  have  been 
more  cordial,  nor  more  tender,  nor  more  remote.  She 
seemed  to  have  been  carried  away  from  him,  to  be  obliged 
to  come  back  toward  him  over  some  abyss  of  experience 
which  she,  nevertheless,  could  not  pass.  She  might  have 
been  standing  on  the  other  brink  of  it,  and  merely  holding 
out  her  hands.  The  talk  turned  first  on  himself,  his  plans, 
his  doings,  small  things  of  which  the  details  seemed  to 
give  her  pleasure.  He  got  the  idea,  however,  that  her 
interest  was  less  in  what  he  told  her  than  in  himself,  and 
that  in  himself  it  was  not  so  much  for  himself  as  because 
of  a  number  of  considerations  which  she  saw  as  centering 
around  him.  Now  and  then,  when  he  had  answered  a 
question,  she  asked  it  again  some  minutes  later,  which 
proved  to  him  that  her  attention  was  not  on  what  he  was 
telling  her. 

Of  herself  she  was  disinclined  to  say  more  than  that  she 
was  better,  that  physically  she  was  almost  well. 

"But  not  mentally?"  he  asked,  with  anxiety. 

"Oh,  is  one  ever  well  mentally?  I  never  have  been — 
though,  as  I  look  back  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  had  been  on 
the  way  to  becoming  so,  if  you  hadn't — if  he  hadn't — 
Tell  me,"  she  began,  again,  elliptically,  "do  you  believe  in 
what  one  might  call  a  great  corrective,  as  part  of  life? 
I  see  you  don't  understand  me,"  she  hastened  to  add. 
"What  I  mean  is  this:  is  there  anything  that  takes  care  of 
people  when  they're  about  to  make  mistakes,  and  that 
keeps  them  from  making  them?" 

"Why  are  you  asking  me?"  he  demanded,  quickly. 
"Is  it  because — ?" 

324 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

"  Let  us  come  to  that  later.  I'm  more  interested  in  the 
question  I've  put  than  in  anything  else  in  the  world.  All 
through  these  weeks  when  I've  been  lying  here  as  if  I  was 
thinking  of  nothing  at  all  I've  been  turning  it  over.  Are 
people  ever  held  back  from  doing  things  that  would  injure 
either  themselves  or  some  one  else?" 

He  tried  to  tear  his  mind  away  from  the  image  of  weak- 
ness and  wistfulness,  of  loveliness  and  seductiveness,  on 
which  he  felt  his  eyes  couldn't  rest  eagerly  enough,  to  give 
himself  to  the  subject  she  had  raised.  "What  sort  of 
people?"  he  found  himself  able  to  inquire. 

"Oh,  people  who  want  to  do  right — not  good  people," 
she  corrected,  "but  people  who  haven't  been  good,  and 
are  only  trying — and  longing." 

"Doesn't  that  hark  back  to  the  question  as  to  whether 
there's  a  power  working  in  us  and  through  us,  with  a  pur- 
pose and  a  love — or  whether  we're  just  splashing  about  on 
our  own?" 

"I  suppose  it  does.     But  which  is  it?" 

"Which  do  you  think?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  think.     I  want  you  to  tell  me." 

"And  I'm  not  going  to,  for  the  reason  that  it  wouldn't 
do  any  good.  What  I  believe  won't  be  of  any  help  to  you ; 
and  nothing  will  be  but  what  you  work  out  for  yourself." 

She  rested  awhile  silently,  saying  at  last,  without 
looking  up  at  him,  "And  suppose  I  worked  out  that  on 
that  morning  when  we — when  we  went  to  the  church 
there  was  a  power — working  in  us  and  through  us — with  a 
purpose  and  a  love— that  kept  us  from  doing  what  we 
went  there  to  do?" 

"You'd  have  to  go  farther  back.  You'd  have  to  in- 
quire why  that  power  should  have  led  us  to  the  church  in 
the  first  place — " 

325 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL 

"But  did  it?" 

"But  didn't  it?" 

"Let  us  try  to  see.  No,  let  me  do  it,"  she  interposed, 
as  he  was  about  to  speak.  She  was  looking  at  him  now, 
not  directly,  but  with  an  oblique  regard  of  her  profound 
eyes.  "You  and  I  met — strangely.  If  I  had  had  any 
suspicion  of  what  was  to  happen  from  my  going  to  you 
that  afternoon  I  never  should  have  gone." 

"Oh  yes,  you  would — if  you  could  have  foreseen  how  I 
should  love  you." 

She  allowed  her  hand  to  remain  in  his  when  he  had 
seized  it  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  "Yes;  perhaps  you're 
right.  If  I  could  have  foreseen  that  I  should  probably 
have  done  it.  It  would  have  been  the  simplest  way  of 
telling  you — the  truth." 

"Haven't  we  finished  with  that?  Didn't  we  agree  long 
ago  that  enough  had  been  said  about  it—?" 

"We  agreed  that  enough  had  been  said  about  a  subject 
of  which — of  which  you  knew  nothing  at  all." 

"But  if  I  know  about  it  now — and  it  doesn't  make  any 
difference — " 

"Ah,  if  it  didn't!" 

"But  it  doesn't.    Can't  you  see — ?" 

"I  can  see  that  you're  the  most  wonderfully  chivalrous 
man  who  ever  lived.  In  the  days  when  I  thought  you 
knew — when  we  were  always  talking  at  cross-purposes — I 
thought  no  chivalry  could  be  greater  than  yours;  but 
now — " 

"  Then  why  talk  about  it  ?  Why  not  let  it  be  the  ground- 
work of  our  love — what  we  have  under  our  feet?" 

"It  isn't  under  my  feet.  It's  over  my  head — it's  the 
firmament — the  sky — the  great  mystery — the  phenomenon 
that  makes  me  think  of  God." 

326 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

The  words  burst  from  his  lips  with  the  accumulated 
force  of  two  months  of  brooding  on  the  point.  "But  no 
woman  wants  to  marry  God.  She  wants  to  marry  a 
man.  I'm  a  man,  Clorinda,  just  as  much  as  you're  a 
woman."  He  seized  both  her  hands  and  crushed  them,  as 
he  leaned  over  her,  his  face  near  hers.  "Oh,  don't  put  a 
halo  round  me  and  set  me  up  in  stained  glass,  or  see  me  as 
anything  but  just  the  faulty  and  humble  human  being 
that  I  am." 

She  managed  to  withdraw  her  hands  and  to  put  dis- 
tance between  them.  "I  can  only  see  you  as  you  appear 
to  me.  You  may  be  a  faulty  and  humble  human  being, 
as  you  say,  but  I've  never  perceived  it,  and  I  perceive  it 
less  than  ever  now." 

"But  you  must  perceive  it — because,  if  you  did,  you'd 
love  me — " 

"I've  told  you  already  that  I  do  love  you— with  a 
special  kind  of  love." 

"The  kind  of  love  one  feels  for  a  clergyman,"  he  cried, 
bitterly. 

"I  withdraw  the  word  clergyman,"  she  smiled,  very 
gently.  "I  used  it  because  I  couldn't  think  of  anything 
else.  I  see  now  that  I  mean,  rather,  the  kind  of  love— 
don't  be  shocked! — that  Mary  Magdalen  and  the  other 
women  in  the  New  Testament  must  have  felt  toward  the 
Saviour.  No,  I'm  really  sincere.  It  is  love.  It's  the 
most  beautiful  and  heavenly  thing — " 

"But  if  I  tell  you  that  you're  wrong?"  he  demanded, 
passionately.  "If  I  confess  to  you  that  I  was  never  as 
gentle  as  you  seem  to  think— that  I  was  never  lenient— 
that  I'm  human  and  gross— that  essentially  I'm  brutal— 
as  brutal  as — as — " 

Before  the  name  which  the  comparison  brought  up 
327 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

could  pass  his  lips  she  interrupted  him  with  her  faint, 
sweet  smile.  "Then  you'd  hurt  me,  without  doing  your- 
self any  good.  When  you  destroy  an  ideal  as  we're  so 
often  inclined  to  do,  you  leave  nothing  but — destruction. 
You  can't  turn  a  crystal  vase  into  a  common  jug  just 
by  the  process  of  breaking,  it.  It's  a  crystal  vase — or  it's 
nothing.  But  you  don't  let  me  explain,"  she  hurried  on, 
as  he  was  about  to  protest  again.  "Do  you  remember 
that  on  that  afternoon — that  wonderful  afternoon! — you 
said  that  I  should  never  find  my  way  until  I  had  turned 
toward  Good?  Well,  I  think  I've  done  it — now — at 
last." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  now? — at  last?" 

"Since  I've  fully  understood  what  you  did  for  me." 
Her  expression  grew  radiant  as  she  added,  "It's  taught  me 
what  I  must  do  for  you." 

"What  you  must  do  for  me,  Clorinda,  is — 

She  continued,  serenely:  "I  thought  you  had  already 
done  as  much  for  me  as  one  human  being  could  do  for 
another.  I  never  supposed  that  human  goodness  could 
go  so  far  as  you  went  that  day — that  day  when  we  came 
in  and  found  Malcolm  Grant — and  all  the  things  you 
didn't  really  know  till  then  must  have  come  crowding  in 
on  you — " 

"If  you  want  me  to  tell  you  exactly  what  was  in  my 
heart  toward  you — "  he  broke  in,  excitedly. 

"No,  I  don't.  I've  nothing  to  do  with  exactly  what  was 
in  your  heart.  I  only  saw  what  you  did — and  what  I 
didn't  understand  till — till  the  night  before  we  went  to 
the  church.  Oh,  I  don't  say  tha£  it  wasn't  a  great  blow 
to  me  when — just  by  a  slip  of  some  one's  tongue — I 
found  it  out.  My  whole  world  seemed  to  go  to  pieces. 
All  the  happiness  I'd  built  up  on  the  idea  that  you  knew — 

328 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

that  you  knew  from  the  first — was  shivered  to  atoms 
around  me.  I  thought  it  would  kill  me.  On  that  morn- 
ing in  the  church  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  must  die.  I 
couldn't  see  what  else  I  could  do — then — so  late — but 
simply  go  on  as  I'd  promised  you — and  yet  ...  I  told 
you  it  was  what  I  ought  to  have  expected — that  I  should 
break  down — didn't  I?  What  I  really  thought — what  I 
almost  hoped  for — was  that  I  might  be  struck  dead  before 
the  service  could  be  ended.  That's  why  I've  asked  you 
about  the  great  corrective — the  something  that  holds  us 
back — that  guides  us,  if  you  like — or  protects  us.  I'm  not 
thinking  of  it  about  me,  but  about  you — " 

He  broke  in,  with  a  groan,  "Oh,  Clorinda,  why  should 
we  go  over  all  this  now?" 

"For  this  reason,  that  during  all  these  weeks  I've  been 
thinking  of  it,  and  realizing  that  the  strength  to  do  what 
you  did  that  day — to  sit  still  and  talk  and  betray  nothing 
— and  never  betray  anything  afterward — so  that  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  an  accident — just  an  expression  or  two — I 
might  have  married  you  and  never  known  it — I've  realized 
that  the  strength  to  do  that  kind  of  thing  doesn't  come 
to  any  man  all  at  once,  nor  except  after  years  of  self- 
training — " 

"To  me  it  came  because  I  loved  you,  Clorinda— and  in 
no  other  way." 

"No;  it  would  have  come  to  you  whether  you  had 
loved  me  or  not.  It  would  have  come  to  you  on  behalf 
of  any  poor  soul  in  a  desperate  place — as  I  was — no 
matter  who.  Not  that  that  takes  anything  away  from 
your  wonderful  act  toward  me.  On  the  contrary,  it  only 
makes  it  the  more  wonderful.  What  I  want  you  to  under- 
stand is  that  it  has  set  me  asking  how  people  do  such 
things  at  all." 

22  329 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

"They  do  them  for  love.  That's  the  source  of  the 
energy." 

"Yes,  so  I  see.  But  love  is  one  of  the  most  mysterious 
words  in  the  language,  and  it's  only  through  you  that 
I'm  beginning  to  see  some  of  the  wealth  of  its  meaning." 
She  added,  shyly:  "I've  been  reading  your  Bible.  I 
never  did  before,  though  I've  heard  bits  of  it,  of  course. 
It's  an  extraordinary  book,  and  I  can't  say  that  I  make 
much  out  of  it  as  yet.  But  there's  one  place  where  it 
says — the  words  impressed  me — 'Love  is  of  God;  and 
whosoever  loveth  is  born  of  God  and  knoweth  God.' 
That  strikes  me  as  rather  amazing — chiefly  in  the  way  it 
simplifies  something  we're  accustomed  to  think  of  as  dif- 
ficult, if  not  impossible." 

"You  meant  that  by  the  mere  process  of  loving  we're  in 
touch  with  God  and  know  Him — when  we're  so  likely  to 
feel  that  He's  unknowable  and  beyond  our  reach." 

She  nodded.  "I  told  you  once  that  the  only  thing  I 
really  knew  about  was  love;  but  I've  found  that  I  knew 
very  little.  I  hadn't  imagined  its  height  and  its  depth 
and  its  beauty.  You've  shown  me  that."  She  took  his 
hand,  smiling  at  him  gently.  "Don't  you  think  that 
that's  a  great  deal  for  a  woman  to  say  of  a  man?  If  she 
could  never  say  any  more — wouldn't  it  be  much?  But  I 
can  say  more,"  she  hastened  on,  not  allowing  him  to 
speak.  "I'm  going  to  try  to  put  that  kind  of  love  into 
practice — into  practice,  mind  you! — toward  every  human 
being — just  as  you  do.  Only" — her  voice  failed  a  little, 
her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  she  bit  her  lip- — "only  when  I 
do — and  you  don't  understand  what  it  is  I'm  attempting — 
I  hope  you'll  be  sure  that — that  it's  that." 

"But  if  it's  that  toward  every  human  being,  it  will  be 
that  toward  me,  too,  won't  it,  Clorinda?" 

330 


THE    LIFTED   VEIL 

"Yes,  toward  you,  too — toward  you  more  than  any  one 
— in  its  way." 

"But  in  what  way?" 

"In  the  way  of  a  great  gratitude  and  devotion."  She 
laid  her  other  hand  on  his.  "Will  you  promise  me  to 
believe  that?" 

"But  why  should  I  promise  you — when  we're  always 
going  to  be  together?" 

"Promise  me,  all  the  same." 

"You  know  I  can't  but  promise  anything  you  ask." 

"Thank  you,"  she  smiled.  "I  shall  only  ask  you  this; 
and  this  I  shall  beg  you  never  to  forget."  She  withdrew 
her  hand  from  his,  lying  back  with  eyes  closed.  "I'm 
very  tired,"  she  murmured.  "Would  you  mind  saying 
good-by  to  me  now — ?" 

"But,  Clorinda,  I've  only  come!" 

"They  won't  let  me  talk  long  yet.  Besides — I  have  to 
keep  my  strength  for — for  something  I've  got  to  do  later 
in  the  day.  I'll — I'll  communicate — with  you — soon 
again.  In  the  mean  while — kiss  me — and  go." 

She  was  still  lying  with  closed  eyes  when  he  raised  him- 
self from  the  long  kiss  on  her  lips,  and  stood  up.  "Clo- 
rinda," he  said,  hoarsely,  as  he  looked  down  on  her,  "I'm 
afraid  of  you.  I  don't  know  what  you  mean — or  what 
you  intend  to  do — but  I  want  you  to  know  what  I  mean 
—and  what  /  intend.  I  intend  to  marry  you.  I  mean 
that  nothing  shall  ever  come  between  us.  I've  said 
solemnly — before  witnesses — that  I  took  you  as  my  wife. 
You  very  nearly  said  that  you  took  me  as  your  husband. 
I'm  coming  back  for  the  completion  of  that  vow.  I  shall 
come  to-morrow.  Doctor  Galloway  will  come  with  me — 
and  we'll  have  the  service  here.  It  will  give  you  no  trouble. 
You  needn't  so  much  as  stand  up.  But — I'm  coming." 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

She  made  neither  movement  nor  response,  still  lying, 
pale  and  aerial  and  lovely,  with  closed  eyes,  and  so, 
after  stooping  for  one  more  long  kiss,  he  turned  and 
left  her. 

On  descending  the  first  flight  of  stairs  he  found  Pansy 
Wilde  waiting  for  him,  near  the  door  of  the  drawing- 
room. 

"Mr.  Bainbridge,"  she  begged,  timidly,  "can  I  tell  you 
something,  sir?" 

Though  he  was  staggering  along,  with  tears  blinding 
him — he  hardly  knew  for  what — he  endeavored  to  turn 
his  mind  to  this  new  demand.  "Certainly,  Pansy. 
What  is  it?" 

The  girl  blushed  and  grew  conscious.  "It's  about — 
about  Mr.  Hindmarsh,  sir." 

"Isn't  he  kind  to  you?" 

"Oh  yes,  sir;  he's  lovely.  He's — he's  asked  me  to — to 
marry  him." 

"Indeed?"  The  matter  was  now  so  grave  that  Bain- 
bridge  had  no  difficulty  in  giving  it  his  attention.  "But 
does  he  know — ?" 

"Yes,  sir — I  told  him.  He  knows  all  about  my  being  in 
jail — and  the  baby — and  everything." 

"And  what  has  he  said  to  that?" 

"He's  said  that  he  knew  it  before — and  that  it's  on 
account  of  it — partly — that  he  wants  to — to  take  care  of 
me — so  that  nothing  won't  happen  to  me  again." 

"And  has  Mrs.  Gildersleeve  said  anything  about  it?" 

She  twisted  her  little  person  and  hung  her  head.  "  She's 
said  I  was  to  be  all  the  more  sure  that  I  was  in  love  with 
him." 

"And  are  you?" 

332 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

Pansy's  bosom  swelled.  "I  don't  care  whether  I  am 
or  not.  If  he  feels  that  way  about  me — " 

He  was  searching  for  a  clue  to  what  was  enigmatical  in 
Clorinda.  "And  have  you  told  that  to  Mrs.  Gilder- 
sleeve,  too?" 

"Yes,  sir;  and  she  says  I  ought  to  be  sure  I  know  the 
difference  between  love  and  thankfulness." 

"And — and  does  she  say  there's  mitch  difference?" 

"She  says  there  is — when  it's  any  one  like — like  me. 
She  says  the  kinder  he  is  the  more  I  ought  to  consider 
him;  and  that  to  marry  him  without  loving  him  with  all 
my  heart  'd  be  the  worst  harm  I  could  do  him." 

"But  if  he's  in  love  with  you!" 

"That's  what  I  say.  But  she  says  it  'd  make  it  worse, 
because  when  a  girl  has  once  gone  wrong,  like — all  she's 
got  left  to  give  is  her  undivided  heart — that  if  she  hasn't 
got  that  she  hasn't  got  nothing — and  if  I  was  to  turn  him 
down  he'd  get  over  it  and  marry  some  one  who'd  be 
better  for  him  in  the  end." 

"And  do  you  want  me  to  advise  you  what  to  do?" 

To  his  surprise  Pansy  said:  "No,  sir,"  quite  conclu- 
sively, nodding  her  little  head,  sagely.  "I'm  going  to 
take  him.  If  I  didn't — I  might  never  get  such  a  good 
chance  again.  Mrs.  Gildersleeve  says  she  won't  put  no 
obstacle  in  my  way — only  that  if  it  was  her — she'd  give 
the  man  her  very  best — or  else  she  wouldn't  do  him  the 
harm  of  taking  him  at  all." 

Bainbridge  was  not  sure  of  the  meaning  of  Pansy's 
little  sob,  nor  could  he  stop  longer  to  inquire.  He  was 
thinking  of  the  undivided  heart,  being  sure  that  the  ex- 
pression was  Clorinda's  own.  It  was  an  additional 
incentive,  if  he  needed  any,  for  taking  Doctor  Galloway 
into  his  confidence  and  making  those  arrangements  for 

333 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

the  following  day  of  which  he  had  already  announced  his 
intention. 

He  was  breakfasting  on  the  next  morning  when  he  read 
the  statement,  thrown  at  haphazard  into  the  news  items 
of  the  day: 

"Sir  Malcolm  and  Lady  Grant,  who  were  married  yes- 
terday afternoon,  left  by  the  night  train  for  Montreal, 
where  they  will  take  up  their  residence." 

All  the  blood  in  Bainbridge's  body  seemed  to  rush  back 
to  his  heart,  leaving  him  with  a  sense  of  being  stunned  and 
suffocated  at  once.  His  immediate  actions  were  purely 
mechanical.  He  laid  the  paper  down;  he  sipped  his 
coffee  without  tasting  it.  He  felt  sick  and  strange. 
Minutes  passed  before  his  mind  could  work  sufficiently 
to  tell  him  that  the  Lady  Grant  of  the  paragraph  couldn't 
be  Clorinda.  Malcolm  Grant  had  said  in  so  many  words 
that  he  had  renounced  her.  He  must  have  married  some 
one  else.  Men  did  such  things.  They  took  refuge  from 
an  overpowering  loneliness  in  any  company  they  could 
find.  Where  a  woman  accepted  her  solitary  lot,  partly 
because  she  couldn't  help  herself,  a  man  took  second  best 
or  third  best  or  even  fourth  best,  rather  than  go  with 
nothing  at  all.  He  could  easily  see  how  Malcolm  Grant 
would  have  married  an  actress,  or  a  chorus-girl,  or  any 
one,  rather  than  return  to  Montreal  alone. 

He  buoyed  himself  up  with  this  hope  while  he  hurried 
to  the  rectory  and  asked  for  Mary  Galloway.  She  came 
into  the  shabby  drawing-room  at  once,  looking  wan  and 
white  and  wide-eyed,  in  a  long,  soft  trailing  thing  of 
mauve.  He  read  the  truth  before  she  had  time  to  speak. 

"So  you've  heard." 

"Oh,  but  it  isn't  so!" 

334 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"I'm  afraid  I  must  tell  you  that  it  is.  She  sent  for  me 
last  evening — only  an  hour  or  so  before  they  went  to  the 
train.  It  was  all  over  then."  She  spoke  as  if  it  had  been 
a  death.  "It — it  happened  in  the  afternoon." 

He  dashed  his  hand  against  his  brow  and  cried  out, 
"Oh,  but  how  could  she?" 

They  continued  to  stand,  while  she  did  her  best  to 
explain.  "Clorinda  wanted  me  to  tell  you  that — that 
she  did  it  because — because  she  couldn't  help  it.  Every- 
thing made  her — first  because — oh,  you  must  bear  it! — 
because  she'd  always  been  in  love  with  him — for  years 
and  years — only  things  happened  that  separated  them — 
and  there  were  misunderstandings — and  she'd  sworn 
never  to  marry  him — never!  .  .  .  Only  when  she  saw 
how  near  she  came  to  marrying  you — and  doing  you  a 
great  deal  of  harm — and  spoiling  your  work — and  your 
life — she  sent  for  him  and  told  him." 

Thrusting  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  he  panted  between 
his  clenched  teeth,  "Go  on." 

"She  wanted  you  to  understand  that  it  was  for  your 
sake." 

The  mad  impatience  of  the  inarticulate  sound  he  made 
kept  it  from  being  quite  a  groan. 

"She  knew  she  could  never  have  been  to  you  the  wife 
you  ought  to  have — that  the  people  of  St.  Mary  Mag- 
dalen's had  been  right — that  everything  was  against  it — 
things,  so  she  said,  that  you  knew  about,  but  that  I 
didn't  understand— just  as — just  as  everything  was  for 
the  other  thing."  Her  lip  trembled  and  her  eyes  were 
full  of  compassion  as  she  gazed  up  at  him.  "  /  could  have 
told  you — at  any  time  during  the  past  few  months — that 
he  was  the  man  she — she  really  loved — loved  that  way, 
I  mean — " 

335 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

He  flung  out  his  hands.     "Then  why  didn't  you?" 

"Because  you  seemed  to  know  it  yourself.  That  eve- 
ning— before  you  were  to  have  been  married — you  prac- 
tically said  so." 

"But  don't  you  know  that  we  all  contradict  ourselves? 
When  I  said  that  it  was  to  have  you  contradict  me." 

"That's  what  I  thought;  only  that  it  seemed  to  me — 
too  late.  I  couldn't  think  of  anything  to  do  but  let  you 
go  on — and  put  the  best  light  on  it  possible."  She  tried 
to  comfort  him.  "And,  you  know,  it  wasn't  that  she 
didn't  care  about  you.  She  did — only  not  in  that  way. 
There  are  two  ways — and  one  way — " 

"Makes  people  marry,"  he  declared,  with  a  kind  of 
savagery,  "while  the  other  turns  marriage  into  a  sacrilege." 

"Yes,  that's  it.  You  do  understand.  You  remember 
my  telling  you  that  she  once  said  you  were — were  too 
much  like  God.  Well,  that  was  just  her  way  of  putting 
it.  You'd  helped  her  wonderfully — in  things  I  don't 
know  anything  about — and  she  felt  such  gratitude  toward 
you  that  she  didn't  know  it  from  love.  She  thought  she 
ought  to  marry  you,  if  you  wanted  to  marry  her.  She 
said  that  she  couldn't  see — especially  with  the  other  thing 
— the  real  thing — of  that  kind — so  mixed  up  and  en- 
tangled— and  with  her  own  hard  feeling  toward  Malcolm 
Grant — which  was  really  a  phase  of  love — about  some- 
thing she's  never  told  me.  .  .  .  And  then — when  she  was 
actually  in  the  church  that  day — with  a  lot  of  things 
clear  to  her  that  had  been  dark  before  that — she  said  it 
was  like  the  lifting  of  a  veil! —  Well,  you  know  what 
happened — and  the  poor  thing  couldn't  help  it." 

He  dropped  into  a  chair.  With  arms  folded  on  a  table, 
he  stared  with  head  erect  into  the  distance,  seeing  noth- 
ing, his  lips  compressed.  Timidly  she  drew  near  him, 

336 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

standing  partly  behind  him,  and  summoning  all  her 
courage  to  say: 

"I  think  that's  all  there  is  to  tell  you.  You  do  under- 
stand." The  affirmative  nod  of  his  head  encouraged  her 
to  go  on.  "You — you  understand  everything,  and  so  I 
needn't  say  how  hard  this  has  been  for  me — "  As  he 
raised  his  head  to  fling  her  a  backward  look  she  drew  a 
little  more  behind  him,  leaning  over  his  shoulder  to  lay 
something  on  the  table  in  front  of  him.  "She  asked  me  to 
give  you  this." 

For  long  minutes  he  leaned  on  his  folded  arms,  gazing 
at  the  envelope  on  which  his  own  name  was  written,  but 
making  no  effort  to  open  it.  When  he  did  so  it  was 
slowly,  and  as  if  in  a  dream. 

There  was  no  formal  beginning  and  no  signature.  It 
reminded  him  of  the  writing  Malcolm  Grant  had  brought 
to  him  two  years  before. 

This  is  the  time  when  I  want  you  to  remember  that  I  am 
doing  everything  for  love — as  you  taught  me.  You  may  not 
think  I  am  acting  wisely  or  kindly,  but  you  will.  I  couldn't 
do  it  more  gently,  so  as  to  give  you  less  surprise  and  pain,  be- 
cause you  would  never  have  permitted  it.  Believe  me,  I  am 
taking  the  only  way,  the  way  that  will  be  best  in  the  end  for  us  all. 
You  will  live  to  see  that ;  and  if  I  make  you  suffer  now,  the  day  will 
come  when  you  will  know  how  right  I  am — and  forgive  me.  When 
it  does,  perhaps  you  will  be  able  to  send  me  some  word  that  you 
have  not  been  rendered  wholly  unhappy  in  knowing  me — since 
I  have  been  so  blessed  and  so  strengthened  in  knowing  you. 

Mary  will  tell  you  everything  else.  She  will  always  be  able  to 
give  you  news  of  me.  Ask  her  sometimes.  She  will  give  me 
news  of  you,  too.  We  shall  not  be  altogether  separated  so  long 
as  we  have  her  as  a  bond  between  us.  It  was  through  her 
that  we  knew  each  other— do  you  remember?— and  I  hope  she 
will  always  be  there. 

I  am  keeping  your  ring.    Keep  mine. 
337 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

i 
He  read  this  with  little  apparent  emotion,  and,  folding 

the  sheet,  he  slipped  it  back  into  the  envelope,  which  he 
put  into  his  breast  pocket,  as  if  it  was  some  ordinary  note. 
Looking  round  to  speak  to  Mary  Galloway,  he  found  she 
had  left  him  alone. 

Once  more  he  leaned  on  the  table  with  folded  arms  and 
stared.  It  was  one  of  those  periods,  of  which  he  had 
known  others,  when  he  seemed  neither  to  suffer  nor  to 
think.  He  had  a  return  of  that  sensation  which  he  had 
experienced  once  or  twice  before,  of  being  on  a  ship  that 
was  going  down.  Everything  seemed  to  be  sinking. 

A  half -hour  later  he  made  his  way  to  the  rector's  study. 

"My  trip  to  France  seems  to  have  become  obvious," 
he  said,  with  what  composure  he  could  command,  "and  I 
suppose  I  may  be  off." 

The  old  man  laid  down  tne  morning  paper  to  discuss  the 
practical  bearings  of  this  request.  He  did  it  coolly,  with- 
out appearing  to  notice  the  reddened  eyes  or  the  twitching 
lips  of  the  drawn,  haggard  face  before  him.  It  was  only 
when  all  was  arranged  that  Bainbridge,  having  risen  to 
go  away,  blurted  out  the  question,  "What's  the  good  of 
those  happenings  in  life  which  give  us  a  great  deal  of  joy, 
or  a  great  deal  of  sorrow,  or  a  great  deal  of  both  together, 
and  pass — apparently  with  no  reason  why  they  should 
ever  have  begun?" 

The  rector  again  laid  down  the  paper  he  had  taken  up, 
removed  his  glasses,  and  rubbed  them  with  his  handker- 
chief, after  which  he  blew  his  nose. 

"Have  you  never  thought,  when  you've  been  crossing 
the  Atlantic,  how  seemingly  useless  is  the  billow  that 
rises — that  rises  only  to  fall — that  falls  only  to  rise  in 
another  billow — and  so  on,  endlessly  over  the  ocean?" 

Bainbridge  confessed  to  some  such  observation. 

338 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

"But  no  one  wave  is  a  creation  by  itself.  Each  springs 
from  another — from  a  great  many  others — from  myriads 
and  myriads  of  others,  back  to  the  beginning  of  time.  Its 
causes  may  be  lost  to  such  poor  ken  as  ours  in  the  infinity 
of  the  seas — and  yet  they're  all  there,  definite,  numbered, 
and  recorded  by  the  intelligence  in  which  even  a  breaker 
can't  form  and  dissolve  unperceived." 

Again  Bainbridge  made  a  sign  that  he  followed  compre- 
hendingly. 

The  roll  of  the  deep  voice  suggested  a  Buddha  speaking 
from  some  age-long  seat  of  meditation.  "And  yet  you 
know  that  each  of  these  waves,  as  your  steamer  rides  it, 
brings  you  nearer  to  your  object,  nearer  to  your  port. 
Very  well,  then!  Just  so  with  the  phenomena  of  life. 
Nothing  comes  by  itself — however  isolated  or  disconnected 
it  may  seem.  The  causes  are  all  there — infinitely  far 
back.  The  thing  that  happens,  no  matter  how  you  may 
question  it  or  wonder  at  it,  is  the  thing  that  was  more 
or  less  bound  to  happen.  It's  the  billow  that  rises  for  the 
minute.  What's  important  is  not  to  know  whence  it 
came,  but  how  to  rise  on  it.  You  can  let  it  swamp  your 
little  craft — or  you  can  make  it  one  more  bounding  leap 
on  the  voyage  which  is  to  take  you  home." 

Bainbridge  said  nothing,  but  he  stood  with  bowed  head 
and  reflected.  He  knew  it  was  in  substance  what  he  would 
have  said  to  another  man;  and  yet  it  was  so  hard  for  the 
physician  to  heal  himself! 

And  because  it  was  hard  it  was  not  till  a  fortnight  later, 
on  the  eve  of  his  sailing,  that  he  was  able  to  write: 

You  want  me  to  tell  you  that  I  have  not  been  made  wholly 
unhappy  in  knowing  you.  Please  be  assured  that  knowing  you 
has  been  the  most  precious  experience  of  my  life.  Whatever 
happens,  nothing  can  ever  dim  the  wonder  of  the  past  few  months 

339 


THE   LIFTED   VEIL 

or  make  me  less  grateful  for  the  joy — I  can  use  the  word — it  has 
brought  me.  If  I  have  lost  some  things,  I  have  gained  too  much 
not  to  be  able  to  see  that  your  friendship  has  made  me  rich  with 
an  inner  treasure  that  time  will  not  diminish. 

I  shall  ask  Mary  for  news  of  you.  She  will  give  you  news  of 
me. 

I  am  keeping  the  ring — where  I  have  always  kept  it. 

"Have  you  heard  from  her?"  he  asked  Mary  Galloway, 
when  he  had  brought  her  this  message  to  transmit. 

She  nodded — chiefly  because  she  found  it  hard  to  speak. 

"And  she's—?" 

"She's  better  in  health — and — and  happy — except — 
except  about  you." 

He  took  one  or  two  turns  up  and  down  the  old  rectory 
drawing-room  before  he  was  able  to  say,  "Then  tell  her 
to  be  happy  about  me,  too."  He  stood  before  her  now, 
looking  down  on  her  as  she  sat  with  eyes  lowered  and 
nervously  clasped  hands.  "Tell  her  that — that  if  a  veil 
has  been  lifted  for  her — one  has  been  lifted  for  me  also — 
one  that  was  down — close  down — and  that  I  see — 

When  he  was  long  silent  she  gathered  all  her  strength 
together  to  say,  "See — what?" 

"I  see  what  I've  written  her,  for  one  thing — and  I  see 
what  she's  written  me — be  sure  to  tell  her  that! — and  I 
also  see — "  his  voice  dropped,  as  he  added:  "but  I'll 
write  that — or  we'll  talk  it  over  when  I  come  back.  Now 
— good-by." 

She  barely  lifted  her  brimming  eyes,  as  without  rising, 
and  with  her  hand  resting  in  his,  she  stammered  the 
words,  "Then  you — you  mean  to  write?" 

"I  will — if  you'll  write  to  me." 

But  as  she  made  no  answer  to  that  proposal  he  stooped, 
kissed  her  cold  hand,  and  turned  away. 

340 


THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

Out  at  sea  he  read  the  words,  in  a  periodical  he  found 
in  the  smoking-room,  and  of  which  he  knew  the  cover. 
"The  marriage  arranged  between  Mr.  Bainbridge,  the 
assistant  rector  of  St.  Mary  Magdalen's,  Fifth  Avenue, 
and  Mrs.  Martin  Gildersleeve  (Clorinda  Rintoul)  will 
not  take  place." 

Somehow,  in  this  laconic  notice,  worded  after  the  most 
correct  models  of  its  kind,  he  divined  once  more  Miss 
Higgins's  change  of  heart. 

He  was  more  sure  of  it,  however,  in  the  flattering  article 
on  Clorinda  which  he  found  in  another  column,  an  article 
describing  the  handsome  residence  of  the  new  Lady  Grant 
in  Sherbrooke  Street,  with  an  account  of  the  remarkable 
collection  of  miniatures  formed  by  the  first  baronet,  also  a 
Sir  Malcolm  Grant — and  the  prophecy,  founded  on  the 
Lord  only  knew  what  intuition  of  Miss  Higgins's  own,  that 
in  recognition  of  his  splendid  services  and  heroic  financial 
sacrifices  in  the  patriotic  cause  the  present  Sir  Malcolm 
Grant  would  soon  be  made  a  peer. 


THE  END 


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